


go ahead and watch my heart burn

by saskiac



Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: AU, Anxiety, H A N D S, M/M, Mentions of childhood abuse, kind of insta love but it's elu so you know the drill, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-10-29 21:15:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20803097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saskiac/pseuds/saskiac
Summary: first love, burning love, careful love. the one where lucas and eliott meet for the first time at a mcdonald's and can't stop thinking about each other from thereafter. it's a little bit angsty, it's a little bit flirty, but it's a whole lot of fluff, too.or, another lucas and eliott love story that deals with anxiety and learning you can be loved.





	1. part one

_“Trust your heart if the seas catch fire, live by love though the stars walk backward.”_

_― E.E. Cummings_

Lucas Lallemant didn’t appreciate the party scene. Since he’d reached the age of fifteen and there was a house party every weekend thrown by someone at his school or a distant, distant acquaintance of a friend of a friend, his apprehension towards nights outs had begun, and his feelings hadn’t change since starting university. But no one cared about that, so he acted the part of the typical teenager, probably fulfilling it a bit too well, if tonight was any indicator. He was drunk enough that he’d overcome the hoard of butterflies in his stomach, and the incessant thoughts of _you look stupid, everyone is staring at you, no one likes you_ had disaparated alongside his desire to leave. He was drunk enough that when Basile left him to go and mix himself another drink, his body didn’t tense up, he didn’t immediately pull his phone out and pretend to be doing something important or texting someone important. In fact, Lucas was drunk enough that he was fine just people watching, and not at all uncomfortable or upset with Yann for ditching him to dance with Chloé or when Arthur found himself pulled into a game of darts. He was vibing with the shitty house music, slumped on a velvet sofa in the corner of a room that seemed too big for any place in Paris. 

The house was a fucking joke, in Lucas’ opinion, he marvelled over the sheer size and opulence, all sharp points and smooth lines — this world of ostentatious wealth and economic privilege he’d stepped into seemed to increasingly blow his mind in his current inebriated state. The disparities between his own life and this house are insurmountable. Lucas isn’t poor, he knows that he’s lucky: a meal on the table every night even if it’s not the most nutritious, a hard-working mother who adores him. He might live in a run-down area of the city, and not have the laptops, video consoles or holidays his friends do, but he’s been okay, fatherless but he doesn’t want to think about that. And he’s definitely not so drunk anymore.

Lucas presses his face into his palms, dragging his hands across his face before he sweeps them through his hair and stands up. He’s on a mission.

“McDonald’s!” Baz yells into the chilly early morning air before turning around to face the rest of le gang and walking backwards, nodding his head towards the golden arches which glow like beacons of hope — both literally and figuratively — to those seeking a reprieve from the cold and the others starving during drunken nights out.

Lucas chuckles out a laugh when Baz stumbles over his feet but steadfastly continues his campaign of encouragement to go to the fast food place. Yann and Arthur exchange a glance before looking at Lucas in askance, who shrugs his shoulders back in confirmation.

As they enter the restaurant they’re immediately hit with blinding florescent lighting and the smell of greasy fried food. Lucas inhales it all in, while feeling for the money in his pocket he doesn’t have. He sighs inwardly, his stomach gnawing at him, but he knows he’ll just have to wait until he gets home.

Basile is already sauntering towards a table in the back, and Yann and Arthur are heading towards the order stations. 

When Lucas doesn’t follow, Yann looks over his shoulder and calls. “You getting anything?”

Lucas shakes his head, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets, looking down at his feet. He’s embarrassed. He knows he could ask either one of the boys to get him something and they wouldn’t even expect Lucas to pay them back. It’s not pity or done at the expectance of a favour in return. They would pay for Lucas, as they’re paying for Basile because that’s how they are.

Yann frowns, considering Lucas’ posture. Knowing, in part, how Lucas thinks because he’s known him forever. Best friends these two, and you can’t be best friends and not know when something’s off with your other half. Whether due to the sudden self-consciousness that overcomes him or the growing desire to sit down because he’s tired as hell, it’s 1:30am after all, Lucas begins walking over to Basile, eyes on the floor as they scan the dirty tiles. He looks up when he feels he can, when it’s okay to, when the sudden feelings of insecurity have diminished marginally, and he notices Basile has commandeered a table with Manon, Imane and Imane’s brother’s friends. Lucas slips onto the bench beside Manon, letting out a small salut before he’s resting his head on her shoulder. He isn’t paying attention to the conversation, only hears boisterous laughter, Basile’s deep tenor and Imane’s sharp tone, presumably calling out Basile. He wants to go to the bathroom and scream at himself because of how fast his mood deteriorated.

It’s not until Yann and Arthur appear at their table, pulling up chairs and trays loaded with fries and ketchup and mayo, and Yann nudges Lucas’ arm that Lucas looks up. He blinks at Yann who indicates the food with his hands, Lucas shakes his head.

“Come on, we’re all sharing.” Yann encourages, raising a fry to his mouth.

Lucas just stares at the food. Manon, seeing this, reaches for Lucas’ hand and squeezes before whispering quietly, so no one else can hear. “Are you okay?”

Lucas looks down at their hands and nods his head. Manon squeezes his hand once more before rejoining the conversation, but her hand remains laced with Lucas’. It’s a small comfort this contact, but it’s a very welcome one, especially coming from her. Manon is one of the anchors in Lucas’ life, like Yann, who keep him steady and grounded and know when he does and doesn’t need to talk. They are the stakes to Lucas’ growing rose, sturdy and supportive, allowing him to breathe and talk on his own.

“Little sister!” Idriss yells, indignantly. “You can’t speak like that to me!”

Imane narrows her eyes at Idriss, folding her arms as she responds, red lips pursed. “But I just did.”

Lucas, hearing Imane’s blunt tone, can’t help but smile because of its familiarity and, really, it’s the small things that encourage positivity in him. Because he’s hungry and, rationally, he knows he’s only hurting himself by refusing the offer of food, he dunks a fry in mayo and munches away as Idriss looks to his friends for support. Lucas’ eyes follow Idriss’ movements to the two boys sitting to his left. Sofiane he recognises with his tight black curls, eyes dipped in honey and defined arms and shoulders. Those were the features Lucas noticed the first time he met Sofiane at Imane’s house one day after school. Imane had glared at him and shoved Lucas into her room because he’d been staring apparently. Sofiane is attractive and Lucas is only human after all. Next to Sofiane sits a boy Lucas does not recognise. His eyes are the first thing Lucas sees because the hospital lights in here are bleeding them of colour making them appear almost clear. He’s wearing a pink patterned short-sleeved shirt with the first few buttons undone, and a silver skull ring reveals itself on his middle finger as he sips from a straw. His nose is strong and curved, and he’s laughing along with Sofiane at Idriss, but all of that is incongruous with his posture, all rounded shoulders that suggest a shyness, as though he wants to make himself smaller. He’s gorgeous and Lucas wants to know his name, all the negativity from before has been steam-rolled by this boy.

Lucas feels his groove coming back. He takes in the sight of his friends, Manon snorting out a laugh beside Imane who is grinning, Arthur engaged in a deep conversation with the no-name boy, Yann reaching across the table to slap palms with Basile, and Idriss gesturing emphatically to Sofiane. He feels all warm, his anxiety seeming so ridiculous, which he knows it is but can’t help how quickly and intensely it grips him, and can go within several minutes or stay with him for days. These are the people he lives for, who help drive away the self-doubt.

The thing with Lucas is that he’s a contradiction. That’s what his anxiety has made him. He is extremely comfortable around his friends: obnoxiously loud and sarcastic, but new people put him on edge. He’s met Idriss and Sofiane before, but never this other friend. This new person combined with Lucas’ weird mood, something he’s regretting already and damning his brain for has him dialled down a few notches. He wants to speak to him, but how? Pretty boys make him nervous.

“Eliott, dude, how can you say that? how can you do this to me, bro?”

Eliott. Oh.

Lucas looks over at Eliott, pretending to search for a fry he wants so as not to be obvious, even though they’re all identical because they’re McDonald’s french fries, and it’s not like Eliott is even looking at Lucas, he hasn’t even glanced at him once, Lucas thinks, but that’s beside the point.

Eliott shrugs his shoulders, an amused smile on his lips at Idriss’ outraged expression.

“This is the guy who made us watch Lost in Translation and Pride and Prejudice a hundred thousand times.” Sofiane interjects, laughing.

The question slips out Lucas’ mouth before he realises the thought has turned into actual spoken words. “2005?” His voice quiet.

Green-grey eyes meet his. Eliott. His brows are furrowed, his eyes curious, like he’s just seeing Lucas for the first time despite having been sat opposite him for the past forty minutes.

“See, you’re saying he ‘made you’ but all I’m hearing is that you wanted to given how many times you’ve watched it.” Imane smirks, Sofiane barks out another laugh, and Idriss’ glare redirects towards Imane, all of them not having heard Lucas’ question.

It’s strange how it happens. As the rest of the gang continue their conversation in vivacious voices, Lucas and Eliott hold eye contact, like looking away would cost them a great deal, like a black hole will open up and swallow the world if they do.

“What did you say?” Eliott asks, an arm on the table, his face resting on a closed fist.

Lucas scans Eliott’s arms, sinewy and smooth and dusted with light hairs; he avoids looking at his chest because he doesn’t wanna ogle the guy when he can see. He’s not an idiot.

“2005.” He could elaborate but he wants to hear Eliott speak, and it’s obvious what he meant.

“Hm.” is all Eliott says.

Lucas is feeling slightly flustered, but he’s not anxious and his cheeks aren’t heating up, thank fuck. He looks away from Eliott’s eyes because it’s a lot to take, the look in Eliott’s eyes — all heat and curiosity like a particularly inquisitive bird. But heat for what? Lucas knows where his is coming from because look at him, Eliott is all model-looking and soft-spoken. Hopefully he’s not an asshole. That would just be Lucas’ luck.

Lucas steadies himself, hand no longer in Manon’s grasp. He mimics Eliott’s position because he’s trying to fill the silence and he’s thinking over Eliott’s response, wondering if he should’ve just kept his mouth shut, but Eliott’s still looking at him — he hasn’t turned away, rolled his eyes or ignored Lucas — and he can’t deal with this silence because what does it mean? So he breaks it.

“It’s the only valid version. Nothing beats that hand flex.”

Eliott breaks his own silence. “Thank you for validating my taste in films.” A small smile, almost shy.

“I love you, most ardently.” As soon as the words leaves his mouth, Lucas wants to take them back, who comes out with that to someone they’ve just met?

Yann glances up at that, confusion clear on his face, he looks from Lucas (cheeks finally beginning to blush) to Eliott, and motions for Lucas to switch places with him.

Lucas utters no words but does as he’s told, now sitting firmly beside Eliott, and avoiding the backward glance Yann gives him before rejoining his conversation with Manon and Baz.

“Have you seen Moonlight?” Eliott inquires, his whole body shifted to face Lucas, leaning against the side of his chair. His eyes have retained their curiosity but there’s also a spark of mischief there.

Strands of Lucas’ hair fall across his face, forming a partial shield and he lets them be. A sort of mask protecting him against unknown intentions; these strange feelings swimming around in his head and stomach. He shakes his head no in response.

It’s like Lucas’ admission has turned a switch on in Eliott’s brain because he’s suddenly speaking. A lot. There’s a palpable excitement behind his words, a passion at odds with his previous calm and brevity.

“Well, I’m not an expert or anything, not like you so I don’t know if it’s a valid opinion,” he teases. “But it’s a fucking beautiful film. Not only the story and the themes it explores, but the acting: the verbal non-communication; the yearning and the fear and the hope. The cinematography? I’ve not seen anything like it. Ok, I need to stop before I start crying. Trust me, you have to see it.”

“It’s not going to make me cry is it?”

“Will that stop you from watching it?”

Lucas ponders a second too long because Eliott is leaning forward into Lucas’ space, elbows on his knees, serious expression on his face, like Lucas’ response will hold a secret to the universe.

“You’ll have to show it to me.” Lucas quips.

Eliott’s eyes widen a fraction. He’s sitting back and Lucas feels a tug in his gut he ignores. Maybe it was a bit too forward? God, he’s probably in a relationship and Lucas has made him feel entirely uncomfortable and that’s the power of Lucas Lallemant, turning the good into the bad. Well done, congratulations to him, he’s done it again.

“You can stream it. I mean, I don’t have the dvd because I saw it in the cinema, but I’ve watched it at home too, on my laptop, which is what I meant to say. We can watch it online. At mine. On my laptop...?” Eliott looks about himself, dragging a hand across his face and sighing before glancing up through his lashes at Lucas.

Lucas is grinning. “Yeah, we should do that. At yours. On your laptop.”

Lucas is rewarded with a sheepish smile, pink tongue wetting the softest looking lips, and a light laugh that is cut off short.

They both lock eyes and look away immediately, a shared embarrassment of sorts. The formulation of words a convoluted task in the presence of this new and intriguing person. But slowly, as if pulled by magnets or the cosmic forces of the universe, their eyes dance their way back up to each other, tethered by a feeling — not that they know each other but that they’re meant to. Lucas doesn’t admit this though.

“I’m guessing you’re a fan of Lady Bird, then.” Lucas rushes to speak before he’s consumed by thoughts of pink lips.

“Maybe I am, and what about it?” There’s a teasing lilt to his words, deep lines emerge around his eyes: his eyes are laughing.

“Manon’s obsessed. She loved Moonlight, too.”

A furrow of the brows. “Manon?” Eliott asks.

Lucas indicates Manon with a thumb. “The pretty brunette.”

“Ah.”

Before he can try to interpret that look, and he wants to, they’re both cajoled back into conversation by their friends. They exchange mutual expressions of disappointment, gift the other with a secret smile.

“Basile, you can’t speak like that about girls.” Manon scolds.

As the night wears on and Lucas is wishing he was home all tucked up in bed in a blanket burrito, his eyes find themselves on Eliott once again, who is drawing on a napkin. Blunt, black lines mar the white fabric; long fingers folded, pressed around a biro. Lucas can’t make out what it is until a few moments later when he feels a brush of soft fabric against his knee. It’s a raccoon and a hedgehog at a cinema? Thoroughly confused, he looks up in askance at Eliott, but Eliott is nodding along to whatever Sofiane is saying.

Yann is shouting his name, because apparently embarrassing nicknames are ripe for use in social situations such as these where there’s a cute boy.

“Lulu!”

Lucas rolls his eyes and glares at Yann. Yann doesn’t have the courtesy to look chagrined. Nope, he is grinning like a buffoon (in Lucas opinion), all mischief and purpose in his expression.

“Remember when-“ Satan’s words, let’s be real, nothing good can come of them so Lucas intercedes.

“Nope, I don’t.”

“But you didn’t let me-“ Yann protests.

“Goodbye.” Lucas stands abruptly and goes to the bathroom. His departure probably won’t prevent Yann from spilling whatever embarrassing thing Lucas has done, and let’s face it, the possibilities are endless, but Lucas doesn’t have to be there to hear it and see the look on pretty Eliott’s face, just the thought makes ugly butterflies crowd his stomach and his underarms begin to sweat.

He breathes out evenly when he enters the bathroom. Not actually needing to go, he glances about the space, and notices his reflection in the mirror, he almost doesn’t recognise that look. He hasn’t felt like this in a while: happy. And there’s something else there, something he’s never felt in all his eighteen years, reflected in his sharp, blue eyes that hold a glow of hope and wonder. He notices his hair, unkempt and longer than he’s ever worn it before, but he likes it. It’s new. If Lucas believed in signs he’d take this new look of bright eyes and long hair and the feelings as an indicator of a new beginning.

His thoughts are disrupted by the swing of the bathroom door and Eliott is there. He’s tall, Lucas notices, around a head taller than him.

Eliott nods back to the table where their friends are sat. “Everyone’s leaving, I think.”

“Oh, okay.” Lucas nods his head, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his blue bomber jacket.

They look at each other for a second longer than necessary completing their dance of quiet looks for the evening, before Lucas nods his head again and starts towards the bathroom door.

“I was thinking, and I know we’ve only just met,” A nervous laugh punctuated by a hand brushing through hair. “But, if you’re still up for it, I was thinking that maybe you might want to watch Moonlight today.”

He stops a foot away from Eliott, tilting his eye back to look him in the eye. “Later or...?”

“Now.”

That’s how Lucas ends up on the quiet streets of three am Paris walking towards a stranger’s apartment. 

They drifted off in the opposite direction to everyone but Manon to hoots and hollers that were certain to dampen the mood in Lucas’ opinion, alas, he was still reeling from his accepted invitation, his mind much too preoccupied to roll his eyes at le gang or bite out a sarcastic retort. Manon leaves them at the next street, venturing off in the direction of Lucas’ own home, she squeezes his hand before wishing them a good night and she’s off. Gone. Alone.

He’s looking down at their shadows — his and Eliott’s — illuminated by lamp posts, elongated and distinctive in their varying heights. He watches their hands brush together while his own, very real hand, is met with a cool breeze instead.

“I like this time of day.” Eliott voices.

Lucas looks up finally and shrugs. “Seriously? Aren’t you cold?” He points towards Eliott’s chest, revealed by the open buttons of his shirt, and turns, walking backwards so he can look Eliott in the eye without being blinded by the yellow superficial light lit at intervals on the pavement. “Who wears a shirt like that in this weather?” He teases. 

Eliott shrugs in return. “You don’t like it?”

There’s something in the air, now completely and entirely sober, his thoughts are running straight for his tongue. “It looks good on you.” 

A grin. “Just good, huh?” 

Lucas looks down, retreating to his spot beside Eliott and bumping his hip against his. “More than good.” 

Eliott bumps Lucas’ hip back, sliding a hand down his arm, and Lucas’ breath is caught in his throat at the feather-light touch, culminating in a shaky out-breath of disappointment when Eliott’s hand doesn’t make contact with his.

He needs to catch his breath. It’s all so new and thrilling. The anticipation.

They pick up their pace as a light patter of rain starts to fall on them. If anyone awake in the city of Love were to stop and listen, they might hear the delirious laughter of two boys, tired and hearts-pumping and alive. If they were to pull open their shutters and push up their windows, they might see these same two boys kicking dirty, puddle water at each other, brushing shoulders and gazing shyly at one another. They would notice that while this is all new, made obvious by the daring but hesitant hand holding, there is a spark of something in the air that seems to have caught these boys up in its spell.


	2. part two

“If that blue could stay for ever…if this moment could stay for ever–“  
— Virginia Woolf

“Fuck, I’m freezing.” 

Teeth chattering, limbs shaking and cold drops of ice water dripping down their necks, Lucas and Eliott hobble towards Eliott’s apartment door. Lucas’ teeth are chattering as he watches Eliott, painstakingly, trying to fit the key in the lock with shaking hands. 

As soon as they’re inside, they’re both stripping off their jackets, shoes and socks. Eliott disappears and returns with a towel for Lucas whose clothes have become a second skin. Eliott’s shirt is halfway off his shoulders revealing a smooth chest and a small tattoo indiscernible in the dark. 

“Why are you standing in the dark?” Eliott is laughing. 

“Uh.” Lucas is laughing too. It’s infectious, Eliott’s laughter. All airy and earnest, like a fresh drop of winter snow on a blank canvas. It creates and funnels light, emboldening Lucas. 

All Lucas can think about is Eliott’s chest and...the skin of his legs being rubbed raw by the wet of his rain-soaked jeans. So when Eliott offers him a pair of sweatpants Lucas is desperately relieved, made all the more sweeter by imagining the next few hours sitting down in squeaky denim. The sweatpants are a little long so he rolls the bottoms up a few times, drying his hair with a towel before drifting towards what he assumes to be the living room.

Homes are interesting places. They can be safe havens for some and dreaded sites of loneliness and fear for others. Lucas has had it both ways. Eliott’s is all wooden floors, white curtains and bookshelves filled with vinyls, non-fiction books, graphic novels and candles. The light grey-blue walls are relatively sparse, interrupted by a painting, a black and white photograph of the moon and an A4 piece of paper stuck to the wall with cello tape, depicting a...raccoon. The same one, Lucas deducts, as the one on the napkin. The napkin.

Dashing back to their pile of clothes on the kitchen floor, he digs through his pockets for the drawing, heart dropping in his stomach, colouring him wholly disheartened when he feels it’s threadbare material. He lets out a curse, catching the attention of Eliott.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Lucas responds quickly, shoving the napkin back into his pocket. “It’s nothing. Should we watch this film you’ve been raving about?” He tiptoes towards the other boy, trying to miss the little drops of water decorating the tiles.

He’s embarrassed at how upset he feels about the ruined drawing. In theory, he could ask Eliott for another, from what he can gage from Eliott’s behaviour and attitude towards him, he’s sure he would do it, be happy too even, but Lucas doesn’t want to test that just yet. 

They end up on the sofa, wrapped up in a stripy, wool blanket that feels like paradise, a shelter against goose bumps and chilly toes. A barrier between cold skin, and hopeful touches.

He feels shitty about it, he really does, he knows under different circumstances he would be enraptured by this film. Thirty minutes in and the colours alone are breath-taking. He wants to hug Little, the main character, up in the warmest hug. But Lucas is completely enthralled by Eliott, and he can’t be consumed by two things at once. It’s all or nothing for him. He doesn’t know whether it’s exhaustion finally setting into his bones and slowing his thoughts down, but with every shift on the sofa beside him, every out breath, he’s glancing over and gazing for seconds on end, before he realises he should be watching the film. This is what he came here to see after all: not him watching Eliott watching the tv.

“Shirley Jackson. Toni Morrison. Hannah Arendt. Shakespeare. Angela Davis. Oscar Wilde.” Lucas reads the names off the spines one by one, some he recognises from school, others from evenings on buses with his mother: she always sat there, an arm slung around his shoulder and a paperback folded in half in the other.

A push of a button. Silence. Light foot-steps, hands shoved into pockets. “A penny for your thoughts?”

Lucas shrugs his shoulders. “You read. A lot.”

“Yeah. And you?”

A shake of his head, he looks at Eliott briefly before returning to inspect the rows of vinyl. “No, but my mother did. Does. She loves Shirley Jackson. I can remember coming home from school and seeing her tucked up in her a chair by the window, dressed in an oversized jumper and joggers, reading away.” He smiles a little at the memory, consumed by his love for his mother for a split second. It’s all a bit much, too private, sharing this with someone he’s only known a few hours. Someone he wants to know. 

“Weren’t enjoying the film?”

“Sorry, I’m just-” Lucas sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “I don’t know. I was enjoying it, but, I guess I’m not in the mood.” 

Lucas drifts to the opposite wall. The raccoon sketch. He’s beyond curious so he asks. It’s that simple really. “What does the raccoon mean?”

“It’s me.” 

Lucas frowns for a second, Eliott is still standing in front of his bookshelves, hands in pockets, a rueful smile on his face. It’s safe to say Lucas is thoroughly confused. 

“You? As in the raccoon?” 

“Yes.”

“So, the drawing you did for me. On the napkin. The raccoon was you? And the hedgehog was?”

“You.” A sheepish smile, and rounded shoulders, a light colouring of red on his smooth cheeks.

“Huh. I’m a hedgehog,” Lucas walks towards Eliott, slowly, with a shy smile on his face. “How do you figure that?”

“Well,” he gives Lucas a considering look, sweeping his body from head to toe with his eyes, and Lucas feels it all over like lava in veins, music in his ears and a shiver down his spine. 

“Well...?” He’s a foot away now. 

Not looking too keen to spill the beans, Eliott intones, “Come here, you have something in your hair.” Lucas is willing to let it go. Eliott doesn’t owe him anything, but he promises himself he’ll find out, one day.

Lucas is practically in Eliott’s space already, so he leans forward slightly, curious and nervous and heart pounding, excited. A soft brush of fingers in his hair, a slight pull and Eliott holds a piece of fluff in front of Lucas. 

“There.” His gaze shifts down to Lucas’ face. Eye contact held on bated breath.

The midnight-blue sky weakens in colour, letting in dregs of light as the sun prepares to rise once more. Wisps of pink stain the sky, and the dead silence of the night is replaced by a slow trickle of noise that grows rapidly into the sound of wheels against concrete and beeping horns of hurried commuters.

Sitting there, listening to the city waken and begin a new day, with legs thrown over legs, dark circles glistening under blue eyes that yearn to shut, to sleep, to rest. Lucas has become quite familiar and fond of the stripy wool blanket, wrapping it around his feet and pulling it up to his shoulders, he leans against the side of the sofa listening to Eliott’s voice, hoarse from talking for hours on end, about everything and nothing: the life-cycle of a star, how he broke his ankle when he was eight falling off a skateboard, about an exhibition launching in a couple months that his work is in. Lucas has learned many things about Eliott, that the intensity of his eyes holds no matter the conversation topic, that Lucas feels them most acutely when he’s answering questions about himself: his friends, his mother, his degree and his love for the piano. He learns that Eliott hates anything with mint in, his favourite ice cream flavour is pistachio and that he pours the milk in his bowl before the cereal — Lucas mocks him to no end.

“Stay here,” Eliott whispers, “don’t go yet.” Lucas traces his hand, the tendons and the knuckles, and the smooth skin between each bump of bone. He lightly taps against green and blue veins, aligning his own hand flat against Eliott’s, his fingers a centimetre or so smaller, Eliott curls the tips of his over Lucas’ and then they slip together, intertwine, Lucas rests his cheek against them. “Ok,” he whispers.

The intimacy of being in someone else’s bed, the bed of someone you like, the intimacy of sharing yourself with someone: your aches, pains and hopes. Every few minutes they’re laughing and Lucas feels the breathy air of Eliott’s laugh on his face that has gradually lost its sound throughout the early morning. He’s taken in this room and cannot help but compare it to his own. No cracked ceiling or second hand furniture in sight. Where Lucas’ room is minimalist, the only indication that it belongs to him being the photos of him and his friends taped up above the headboard of his bed, Eliott’s is a manifestation of his passion: a mural covers the walls, his collection of shirts hangs on a rail by the door, photos from magazines, ticket stubs and photographs decorate the area around his mirror in a collage of his greatest hits.

Sprawled on blue sheets, lying on their sides, faces close and resting on palms, whispered breaths and uncontrollable laughs. Quiet smiles, lingering touches, and sighs of contentment. A new world has been created, here in these cerulean sheets. A world forged of a compulsion to know the other, inside and outside.

The desire to kiss Eliott has grown like daisies in summer since he saw him standing in the door of that bathroom at McDonald’s, and now that they are positioned in such a way that if Lucas were to just tilt his head forward slightly, their lips would brush. He’s drunk on the tantalising idea.

That’s how they get there. Eliott, is running long fingers through Lucas’ hair, even more wild and unkempt than it was at one a.m. His hand stops, reaching around to grip the back of Lucas’ head, and Lucas takes the moment because he’s desperate; he’s buzzing with nerves, but, oh, he wants to. He closes that space between them, it’s nothing really, a whispered breath of air, and a press of his lips against Eliott’s for a few seconds, and just as he begins to retreat, Eliott reciprocates, his grip on Lucas’ head holding him in place. There’s a candle burning in Lucas’ gut, it was shimmering earlier and now it’s positively burning. As their lips move against each other, Lucas opens his mouth and Eliott deepens the kiss. It’s slow and sensual, a new dance, bursting into existence.

Brushing his thumb against Lucas’ lower lip, pressing one, two, three quick kisses to his mouth, Eliott pulls back, and smiles, and Lucas’ heart is afire. He whispers, “Whoa.”

Lucas is hit by a tide of overwhelming need, he can’t look at Eliott for a second. He drags his eyes away and turning over, reaches for his phone on the nightstand to distract himself. 

(57) new messages from Le Gang

(2) new messages from Manon

“In trouble?” Eliott asks.

“Oh, just my friends wondering why I went home with a weirdo.”

Lucas feels fingers pinching his sides and he’s gasping for breath, gasping into a kiss.

Feet brush and tangle. Sleep comes for them both, the white curtains trying in vein to block out the sunlight, though their job is easy made easy by these two boys high on desire for each other and utterly exhausted. Eyelids shut, breaths even out, tucked in a pocket of their own making, the boys sleep.

And sleep. 

And, 

Sleep.

It’s as though the body refuses to reenergise unless you sleep at night, making it so that when Lucas wakes he wishes he could be asleep once more. He closes his eyes against the afternoon sun but a nagging pain tugs at his consciousness, he rolls onto his side, relieving his dead arm, the tinkling of blood filling his limb. Huffing out a breath, rubbing his eyes, and yawning, Lucas flops onto his back and stairs at a smooth white ceiling, no cracks or brown stain. He’s not home. He reaches under the duvet wrapped around his body, and he’s also dressed.

There’s a faint sound filtering through the closed door, and like a bee to honey, he trails its path to a sleepy boy, coffee in hand, listening to the radio. A window is latched open, letting in humid air, a rigorous contrast to the icy rain of the night before. Looking at Eliott, remembering last night, his heart falls to his stomach. Should be stay? Or should he leave? How do you navigate this kind of situation? They talked for hours, kissed, but only met fifteen hours ago...does he sit down at the table, smile and hold Eliott’s hand? Or does he sneak out, as quiet as a mouse, and never speak to him again? It would be so easy, they don’t have each other’s numbers, after all.

Lucas takes a step forward, hesitates and turns away, betrayed by a creaky wooden floor board he steps on. Because of course he does.

“Sorry, I was-“ 

“Hey!” Eliott’s chair scraps against the floor as he stands up, winding around the table to meet Lucas, giving him a quick peck and a winning smile. Lucas is stunned, he thought...he imagined that maybe it was all in his head. That he was clouded by desire, by his own feelings. “I have cereal and yeah, that’s about it. Sorry.”

“I should go.”

“You can stay for breakfast.”

He’s feeling awkward, like he doesn’t belong. He just wants out of the situation as quickly as possible. “No, I should really get back. Check in with my mum...”

“Alright.”

Not knowing what else to say, a sharp contrast to their late night/early morning ramblings, Lucas disappears into Eliott’s bedroom — meticulously clean and tidy — to get dressed. Pulling on his jacket, he checks to make sure he has everything and heads towards the door.

“Can I have your number?” Eliott just in boxers leans against the kitchen door frame, arms folded across his chest like barriers to potential rejection. Lucas’ rejection. He doesn’t like that power. He would be lying if he said he didn’t want to see him see again. But he’s unsure if he’ll ever use the number because, firstly, look at Eliott. He’s been carved by Aphrodite herself; beautiful, sleepy, green-grey eyes like water mottled green by the harbour, deep brown hair that defies gravity, and a keen interest in people: their likes and dislikes, their passions. Lucas cannot compare in any sense of the word. He’s just...lesser. But he’s weak and he caves because he can still feel Eliott’s lips on his.

Eliott slips Lucas’ phone back into his jacket pocket, squeezes his hand and steps back. “Until next time.”

“See you.” The words taste like bile in his throat. He wonders if Eliott can sense the deceit.

And Lucas is out the door, stumbling down the stairs and onto the early evening streets of rush hour. He’s pulled along by streams of work-weary people desperate to get home, to have dinner, to see their children and lovers. In this sea of anonymity, Lucas lets his mind float, float towards that circus of dreams he was lucky enough to experience, letting himself be consumed by that feeling of being cared for in a way entirely different from familial love, love from a stranger, someone who doesn’t know the flaws of his person, the openness of being touched with care, his thorns soothed down for the night, no shields in place, because while he pretends to be sharp, he’s a fool for kindness, for love.

Not that he believes it’s love with him and Eliott, yet. It’s definitely too soon, he thinks. Though it would be the biggest lie to himself if he never acknowledged that there was something there. He can’t describe it, he can’t explain it, because the words haven’t been invented in his language yet. It is more than lust, a string below love, and this is what is on his mind when he finally reaches home.

The Lallemant’s may not be wealthy, not have the income to be able to kill the environment with their private jets, but they get by and they are strong, because you have to be in a world that does not care about you. Since his father left, there have been times when it has been a struggle to put food on the table, but his world has been a world peace since that man left. Since he was forced to leave. The strain in his mother’s shoulders is no longer there, and her step is lighter, her smile is a constant ray of light, and seeing this eases some of the anxiety in his stomach.

Slipping off his shoes, Lucas practically bolts to the bathroom, hopping into the warm spray of the shower. As he washes his body, he can’t help but think he’s washing away Eliott’s touch and he stops for a second to process this.

When the water turns off he hears the unmistakeable sound of pots and Celine Dion coming from the kitchen and the smile that overtakes his face cannot be stopped. He rushes to dress, combing hands through his hair as he strolls towards the kitchen, resting his elbows on the work surface as he grins at his mother. Her blonde hair wrapped up in a scarf with her fringe peering out of the fabric and a spatula in one hand, Ms Lallemant exclaims: “Honey! How is my little boy doing?”

Lucas rolls his eyes as she leans forward to kiss his cheeks, though he’s secretly loving it, and his mother knows this. “I’m good, maman. And you? How was work?”

She sighs, “The usual. You okay to have spaghetti, tonight?”

“Spaghetti is good.”

“How is our little Manon doing? Did you have a good time at hers?”

Manon. Thinking back on the texts he received but hasn’t replied to. She must have covered for him and thank the heavens for this intelligent girl, Lucas thinks, always saving him, since before he can remember. Manon has always had her head screwed on straight, logical to Lucas’ chaos. They balance each other out.

“She’s doing good, her brother has a new boyfriend, and her dad just retired,” Lucas replies, feeling shitty for lying about his whereabouts, but also not wanting to share Eliott with his mum because that would make it a thing, which it isn’t. “We didn’t do much though, maxed out from the party.” He concludes.

“Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah.”

They eat their spaghetti at their two-seater table, sharing anecdotes from their restrictive days, made-up in areas on Lucas’ part, teasing and mocking each other, because that’s how they work. Their dynamic established even while living with their father became more pronounced and carefree when he was gone. Freeing them up to be as loud and ridiculous as they can.

In the confines of his room, Lucas opens up his group chat with le gang and rolls his eyes, it is now sixty-three messages of asking for details, cheering him on for “finally getting some action” and asking where he is. Lucas clicks off that chat and onto Manon’s.

_Today 14:25_

**Manon**  
Told your mum you’re at mine

Assumed you would forget

_Today 18:45_

you are an absolute Blessing 

thank you ❤️ 

❤️

He slumps onto his bed, starfish-ed across the sheets and stares at the ceiling. The brown stain. The cracked paint. His phone beeps. He sighs. He picks it up.

_(1) new message from eliott_

_Today 20:41_

**eliott**  
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U0jmgLaNL-Y/

“Lips meet teeth and tongue, my heart skips eight beats at once  
If we were meant to be, we would have been by now  
See what you wanna see, but all I see is him right now”

But all I see is him

Right

Now.

The song is bittersweet, but the melody hypnotises Lucas until it worms its way into his head and he’s humming along.

_Today 20:41_

**eliott**

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U0jmgLaNL-Y/

cute 

you're cute 

The feeling that comes with those words. Is there really anything better than that? Being thought of in connection with something random. Being thought of period.

Can I call you?

if it so pleases you 

_Incoming call: eliott_

There’s rustling on Eliott’s end and then his voice, a bit hoarse, saying: “Hey, Lucas.”

The sound of his name in Eliott’s voice sends a buzz through him. “Hey, you. Missing me already?”

“Like you don’t wanna know,” a chuckle, a breath. “Is that weird?”

Lucas shakes his head, feeling weirdly emotional, like he could cry. “No…” He coughs to clear his throat.

Putting his phone on loud-speaker, Lucas places it beside his head and closes his eyes, counting the staggered beats between his out breath and Eliott’s until they’re almost sinked up. A faint trickle of music filters through the phone, a bass and an acoustic guitar echoes in the periphery.

“Would it be weird if I asked to see you again?”

“We did eat each other’s faces off this morning.”

“You really have a way with words,” a few seconds silence. “but you didn’t answer my question.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I’ll see you. Under one condition. Wear one of your lesbian shirts.”

A snort, followed by hysterical laughing. Lucas can picture Eliott’s face at this: crinkle-eyed, full-toothed smile, a hand reaching up to cover his face, to shut off his happiness from the world.

“What?” Lucas is laughing too.

They stay on the phone for a while, Eliott playing songs to Lucas, and Lucas voicing whether he likes them or not. He’s almost shocked out how open Eliott is with sharing his music, Lucas thinks it would take a few months to crack that from him.

“I asked Imane about you.”

“Oh no.”

“You’re on the same course. Biology, right? So you’re really fucking smart.”

“Um. It depends who you ask, some would tell you I’m an impulsive idiot who may be book smart, but I’m lacking in other areas. Anyway, Imane is ten times smarter than me. Let’s just say I get by…with her help. How did you meet Idriss?”

“Same high school. We joined the same film club and that’s where we met Sof. Kinda been attached to each other ever since.”

“How have I never met you til this morning, then?”

“The universe works in mysterious ways. And, you know, Imane said you were smarter than her.”

Huh. “Really?”

“Really. So, when can I see you again?”

“Tuesday?”

“Could I kiss you again?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i gave eliott my reading taste lol
> 
> and  
thank you for the lovely comments on the previous chapter, my heart is all 💕💞💓💗💖


	3. part three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS!  
disclaimer (sensitive topics): this part includes mentions of and flashbacks of verbal and physical abuse towards a child. thoughts of wanting to hurt the self.

*** PLEASE READ THE CHAPTER SUMMARY FOR TRIGGER WARNINGS.

_“What cannot be said   
will be wept_.” — Sappho 

Kissing Eliott has become one of Lucas Lallemant’s favourite pastimes in the last couple of weeks. He is still coming to terms with the idea that there is someone in this godforsaken world that likes him enough to share saliva with him. To share his breath and his taste. He hasn’t felt this content in a long time which has him on edge in the belief that something will go terribly wrong sooner rather than later, because that’s how the world liked to play with him. Eliott’s company seemed to quieten the anxiety, not entirely, of course, it simmered there, occasionally peeking up its head and waving a hand in Lucas’ face to remind him that all good things come to end. But being in Eliott’s presence made him think less about his constant worries, he felt a peace that was all about how he wanted to be around Eliott all the time, he wanted to touch him: hold his hand and kiss his fingers, hear him speak about the latest film he watched and loved, the pieces he’s working on for the exhibition; he insists on inviting Lucas to seem them, but Lucas wants to be surprised. Kissing Eliott has really addled his brain.

They are sitting on grass that has seen better days, in shorts and t-shirts, in a flower garden, with their tongues dancing in each other’s mouths, and ice cream that is dangerously close to falling out of their cones. Lucas draws back and when Eliott leans in for another soul-searing kiss, Lucas places his palm across Eliott’s mouth, pushing him away with a giggle. Instead, Lucas presses his lips to the smooth skin of his neck and is gifted with a shiver from Eliott. Lucas smiles, pleased, before licking his ice cream and then licking Eliott’s neck. When Eliott jerks back, raising a hand to touch his neck with a frown on his face and a confused yell of “what the hell”, Lucas is laughing and clutching his stomach, his ice cream slipping out of his hand and staining the grass a raspberry-pink.

Eliott glances at his own ice-cream covered hand and lunges towards Lucas smearing his hand across his forehead. Lucas tries in vain to avoid Eliott’s touch, shoving at his arms and chest, but Eliott is deceptively strong and he’s leaning over Lucas, pining his hands on the grass and shaking his own in amusement. “How are you so gorgeous and so nasty at the same time?”

Lucas’ cheeks are flushed and he is grinning widely. “If I’m so nasty I bet you won’t want to kiss me again,” he attempts to sit up again but Eliott’s hands are firmly holding him down. “Oh, well, I’ll just have to find someone else to fill that job.”

Eliott narrows his eyes playfully. “Oh, really?”

Lucas lets out a long sigh and stares Eliott dead in the eye. “I mean, it won’t be hard,” he gestures with his hand to the grass beside him. “since I have such a long line of boys wanting to date me.”

In a move out of Lucas’ book, Eliott roll his eyes and lays down beside Lucas, releasing his wrists in the process. Their heads are turned towards each other and Eliott rests his palm against Lucas’ cheek, a bit sticky from ice cream. He brushes their noses together and sighs, contentedly. “You.” Is all he says.

Lucas reaches up to touch Eliott’s hair, it’s incredibly soft and fluffy, like a pillow of clouds. “How does your hair grow like that? All up and down and you know.” He flaps his hand around in way of speech.

Eliott imitates the action, letting out a confused laugh. “I don’t know.” He pecks Lucas on the lips.

“It looks like how a marshmallow feels.”

“Thank you?”

“You’re welcome,” Lucas responds, entirely serious. He scoots closer to Eliott, resting his head in his neck as he wraps an arm around his back until there is no space between them. “How are you this comfy. I could legit lie here forever.” Sighing once more, closing his eyes against the sun, he suddenly feels the urge to cry because this is all he’s ever wanted: to feel safe and secure.

The tears must fall because Eliott says, “Hey?” And attempts to draw Lucas back so he can check he’s okay, but Lucas won’t budge. He’s clinging desperately to Eliott because he’s embarrassed at how emotional he has gotten all of a sudden. He doesn’t want to spoil the lovely day they have had.

“Hey.” Eliott repeats, stroking the back of Lucas’ head and clutching him in his arms in a solid embrace. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Lucas wants to wipe his cheeks but this embrace he is caught up in overpowers that desire tenfold. Eliott’s words play like a song on repeat in his head, and in the hold of his arms, Lucas begins to breathe without tears, his arms loosen their hold slightly, and he’s suddenly exhausted. Eliott, feeling this, draws back and cups Lucas’ face in his hands, searching his face and making note of the tears. He uses his thumbs to wipe them away. He kisses Lucas on the tip of his nose and whispers once more, just to make certain it sinks in: “I’ve got you.”

Lucas closes his eyes for a second, letting the remainder of the tears fall, before blinking his big blues open to a face full of worry and love- he closes them once more, and when they open again Eliott is still there, but he does not look as worried anymore, just a bit concerned. Lucas wipes his nose against his sweater meanwhile Eliott is sitting up and asking: “Are you okay? Do you want to talk about it.”

Lucas begins to shake his head as he mirrors Eliott’s position, becoming all too aware that they are in public, but the thought is there and then gone: insignificant. Lucas begins to shake his head, then stops. Looking down at his black vans, he answers, in a quiet voice. “I- I was feeling. Overwhelmed.”

There’s a few seconds of silence while Eliott muddles over his response. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m forcing you to do anything-” he starts.

“No!” Lucas interjects, shaking his head emphatically. “Seriously. I’ve just-” He pauses, almost choking on the words, because the thought of expressing how he’s feeling leaves him feeling raw. “I’ve never liked anyone like I do you. And I do, like you, that is. I know you’ve said it to me multiple times over the past couple of weeks and I want you to know it. That, I like you. Sorry, I kind of cry a lot? I’ve always been told that I’m too emotional, and just you holding me and letting me hug you like a monkey,” he laughs, nervously, wanting to stop because it’s too much, opening up like this, but he believes Eliott deserves to know that he is liked too. “I don’t know; it made me feel cared for.”

He wipes his nose again and picks up a wilting daisy from the dying grass.

“Lucas…” Eliott’s voice is quiet. “Lucas, come here.”

Lucas shakes his head slightly. He feels exposed. Ridiculously so.

Then Eliott is there, tilting Lucas’ face up to his, cupping his hands around his neck and there is wonder in his grey-green eyes.

“Fuck,” he chuckles as his own eyes take on a red sheen. “You are an absolute dream. And if you’re too emotional then so am I. I like you so fucking much.” He rests their foreheads together and they breathe. Just breathe in the intimacy of their own making.

“Please never apologise for expressing your emotions,” Eliott’s voice has turned gruff and it remains the most beautiful sound Lucas has ever heard. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

“We should probably get out of this flower garden; I think we’ve scandalised that old couple and their grandchildren.” As Eliott stands up and reaches out his hand for Lucas to glasp, which he does, Lucas looks over his shoulder at the aforementioned family and sees an old man shaking his head and an old woman, seated beside him holding her hand over the eyes of her two little grandchildren who are squirming to get out of her hold.

“Think we were being too gay for them?” Lucas asks, laughing once more, hand tucked safely in Eliott’s.

“That or us rolling around and kissing made them uncomfortable.”

When Lucas looks up at Eliott he has a pleased smile on his face, like he does not give a fuck if they were being too touchy-feely or being too gay, like he would do it all over again just to rub it in the old couple’s faces. Lucas decides it is definitely a good time to leave, determinedly leading the way to the exit while saying: “Simmer down, kitten. We don’t actually want to get kicked out.”

The park is manicured green lawns embellished with blooming flower beds of fuchsia and clementine. A colonial-style building stands at attention before a fountain where people lounge around with their feet dunked in water that is not the most clean but ultimately refreshing on a warm day such as this where everyone’s foreheads are touched by a slight finish of sweat. Lucas leads Eliott towards the fountain and looks at his phone to see it is almost at the next hour, right in time for the fountain to begin its fourth presentation of the day.

When it starts people yelp and dash out of the fountain — tourists, Lucas concludes. More daring individuals remain seated and get pelted with smooth streams of water in rapid succession, Lucas drop his arm from around Eliott’s waist, walking backwards towards the water display. He raises his eyebrows in challenge and licks his dry lips. Eliott, following Lucas tongue with his eyes raises his eyebrows in return and saunters towards Lucas. Putting himself in the line of fire, Lucas manages to duck behind Eliott just in time for him to act as a shield to the water. He looks at Eliott with innocent eyes as if to say _oops_ and takes one step back, then another. Eliott pushes his wet hair back off his forward and stalks forwards, slowly. It’s like a game of chess, and Lucas has never been very good at it; walking backwards is not helping his case either as he has to keep looking over his shoulder to make sure there are no obstacles destined to trip him up.

It is during one of these glances over the shoulder that Eliott manages to cover the distance between them in a few strides and grab Lucas around the waist at the perfect moment to push him forward into a surge of fountain water. As Lucas splutters, yelling _you dick!_ While pushing at Eliott’s hands, he manoeuvres himself just so Eliott is clinging onto his t-shirt and he shoves out of it as Eliott gets a face-full of water, and releases his grip. Lucas with his shirt around his neck runs, although it is not really freedom that he wants. He wants Eliott to catch him, grab him by the waist and kiss him. Kiss him until he cannot feel his toes, until fire is tearing through his body.

Removing his t-shirt, Lucas scans for Eliott, and they lock eyes. He feels a heat pricking his stomach, the look Eliott is giving him. Fuck. He continues the game, walking backwards with a deliberately slow pace, and Eliott is there, right in front of him, reaching around Lucas with his long arms, and Lucas is shoving his scrunched up t-shirt at Eliott’s chest, smiling widely. Eliott’s arm draw him closer and Lucas places his hands on this beautiful boy’s biceps, looking up into his face. The anticipation is killing Lucas, his stomach is all a mess now and he’s nervous as hell, his mind is on a loop of _kiss me kiss me kiss me kiss me kiss me_. Eliott’s eyes are roaming from blue eyes to pink parted lips, making no move to initiate contact so Lucas does. He starts on his tip toes, brushing their mouths together, causing Eliott’s breath to hitch and Lucas consumes that breath as their lips slide together. It’s a wet kiss from all that water, but it provokes the fire in Lucas stomach ten degrees hotter. Eliott’s hands shift and roam the bare skin of Lucas’ back, stopping to trace his shoulder blades and the few raised moles that decorate his back like constellations.

They pull apart to catch their breath and then fall back into each other because they can’t get enough. This pull between them intensifies to infinity when they touch, and if they don’t stop, Lucas thinks, they’ll keep on going forever, and having sex in public is not something he’s keen on doing at the moment. When the kiss breaks again, Lucas runs both hands through Eliott’s hair until he’s cupping the back of his head. “We need to stop.” His heart skips eight beats at once, and he’s trying to catch his breath.

“I know.” Eliott’s hands flutter around to Lucas’ chest, delicately tracing his fingers across collarbones, down the centre of Lucas’ chest until he’s holding him by the waist. A heavy breath and a disappointed sigh later, Eliott and Lucas are holding hands, soaking wet and walking back to Eliott’s.

Despite certain situations causing it more than others, and so, one could assume there is a predictable nature to it, anxiety is anything but that. Lucas read a quote somewhere, it spoke about love, but resonated with him on another level, his anxiety attacks in rolling waves: “like the tide, but there is no schedule for it, no great silver moon to pull it in regular courses”. He knows what situations will most likely exacerbate it, but sometimes he has to plow ahead anyway, otherwise he’d never leave the house to see his friends or go to uni classes. Ever since he felt the first prickle of anxiety in his head at the age of fifteen, he’s been wondering where it comes from, and it was only when his dad left that he realised it could not be unconnected from his childhood.

Trauma is a big, scary word. For years Lucas was adamant that that word was too intense and serious for what he and his mother went through. Trauma was what people experience post-war whether they were the perpetrators or the victims of it. Being hit, and punched, and shouted at every day, being scared to come home, and walking on eggshells around his father, trying to say the right thing, that wasn’t like war. But as his conception of trauma expanded as he grew, he realised that while it was definitely serious and intense and big, trauma wasn’t something a person contracted, it wasn’t isolated to war. You could experience trauma from being in hospital, or watching a friend die, from being in a car crash, et cetera. Childhood abuse was an example of trauma, but Lucas was still unsure how this connected to him because he was never triggered by anything. Sure, some situations such as a parent shouting at their child on the bus or a child abuse storyline on a tv show brought up memories of his father, and he would cry about it sometimes, and laugh about it other times, because it was painful and sometimes the only way to get through a spell of flashbacks is to laugh.

This is why when Lucas is home alone one evening after a day spent having out with Eliott and le gang, he is scared shitless. He spirals. He’s alone and he wishes he weren’t. He has never been triggered before, so when he’s watching a thriller and the mother slaps her daughter across the face calling her every derogatory name under the sun, then proceeds to kick her, he is not expecting the feelings that overcome him. He is not expecting the need to pause the film, to turn the screen off. But he does it and then he’s there, back when he was seven.

_Desperate for the toilet, he’s been holding it for the past twenty minutes and he’s ready to burst. His father, dark brown hair cut short, is in the front seat driving and telling him he has to wait, that they will be there soon, but Lucas is desperate, his stomach ballooning, and he knows that if the car wheels hit one more bump he will wet himself. He is more scared about how his father will yell at him, most likely hit him several times, than he is about wetting himself. They are on their way to Yann’s football birthday party and he’s nervous about going because he doesn’t know everyone who will be there and he can’t possibly go in after having wet himself. So he prays, even though he’s not religious and none of his family are, he prays to not wet himself, to hold it in for just another few minutes. But their car hits something on the road and it’s over for him. He’s weeing on his chair, and it’s dripping to the floor and his father is cursing him out saying: “What the fuck! What have you done, you disgusting boy. You’re seven years old, not a goddamn baby” and his face is turning red and he’s slamming his hands on the horn and because once he starts he can’t stop, he’s yelling: “How did I end up with the most stupid son, he can’t even hold his own piss in. You are disgusting, do you hear me?” And then they are there, at the shopping centre where Yann’s party is being held and his father is slamming his car door shout, stalking around the front of the car, yanking Lucas’ belt off, grabbing him roughly my the arms — hard enough that there will be bruises later — and pulling him out of the car. He’s grunting and wrinkling his nose, it smells, Lucas knows, he hates himself, he wants to punch himself in the face, because his father is right, he is disgusting. He’s an embarrassment, a piece of shit like his father has called him so much times he cannot count. His father is making him change in the parking lot, out of his clothes, so he’s standing there in the cold, naked and shivering, with wee dripping down his leg, it has filled up his shoes and his father is shoving Lucas’ face into his piss-soaked shoes, and he’s crying and crying and crying._

Lucas would often receive ten hits on the hand if he left a piece of school uniform at school, if he got a tiny bit of paint on his shirt in art class, if he left his spelling book at school. He remembers getting hit across the face at sixteen for loosing his watch at school, being called the c word and boxed about the ears for forgetting to wash up the dishes before his father got home from work. Shoved up against a wall, face pinched in his father’s hand because he talked back to him. Anything could set his temper off; it was almost like he thrived off of being angry because he would always find something to blame Lucas for.

Now he is curled up in his bed, mind consumed by that one memory, thinking what he did to deserve it, all of it. How a parent can treat their child that way. He believes that there are people who should never have children and his father was one of them. What he hates most is that he still loves him. Despite all the utter shit and pain he put Lucas through, he would knock on his door in the evening, come in and hug Lucas, stroke his hair and say: “_I love you, you know that, right? I only say it because I care about you. I know I get angry, too angry, sometimes and I’m sorry. I only get this angry because I love you so much._” And Lucas was fooled every single fucking time.

He lays there, frustrated and angry and ashamed. The truth is, he never even thought of telling anyone about it when he was younger. It never even crossed his mind. Subconsciously he knows it was because he loved his dad and he didn’t want him to be taken away or for himself to be sent to live with strangers. Parents equal security. They are the people who are supposed to love you unconditionally, no matter what. That was how it was supposed to be. Simple really. It wasn’t until his dad left, was forced to leave, that he considered telling people: Yann being one of them. Every time he tried to bring it up, his throat would close up, they couldn’t get past those channels in his throat. He couldn’t force them out no matter how hard he tried. He imagined a weight being lifted off his shoulders, walking around feeling lighter, but apparently that was no incentive because the words refused to be spoken aloud. It wasn’t for a while until he realised that he was ashamed of what had happened to him, ashamed to still love the man who could be so cruel. Ashamed that he had let this happen to himself.

Lucas screams into his pillow until his throat is raw, he scratches at his face in frustration. Then he shoves his pillow over his head and burrows under his duvet, blocking all the light from entering, a black hole of his own making. It’s been years, how can he still be so sad about this. He wishes his mum would come home right then and curl up around him, kiss his forehead and tell him she loved him. He wants to scream so loud that everyone in the city will hear him and come running. But his throat is raw and he is exhausted and he wants to sleep forever. He’s crying, loud sobs wrack his dog-tired body.

He yearns to call Eliott, to unload all his problems, to describe and explain his anxiety, to talk about his father. He wants to confide in him, but they’re not even officially dating, they haven’t defined their situation, and Eliott doesn’t deserve to see this side of Lucas and all the trouble it comes with, he deserves more than Lucas will ever be able to give him. The last thing he wants to be is a burden, a problem, a leech on Eliott’s happiness.

Lucas clicks on their chat anyway and suddenly he’s calling Eliott, needing to hear his voice. There’s rustling on the other end, the sound of music, and a door closing before Eliott’s voice says, “Lucas?”

Lucas doesn’t respond.

“Lucas?” Concern creeps into Eliott’s voice, Lucas feels guilty. He should just hang up, he will hang up…in a few seconds.

“I- Sorry, I misdialled.” He lies, wincing at the sound of his voice, hoarse and wrong.

“What’s going on?”

“Um.” His voice croaks and he grits his teeth in annoyance.

“Are you home? I’m coming over.”

Lucas rushes to reassure him, he can’t see him like this, all pathetic and feeling sorry for himself. “No, really. I meant to call someone else. I’m fine, really.”

“You don’t sound okay. Please. Let me come over. We don’t have to talk or anything, let me know you’re okay. Let me see you. Please.”

The sincerity in Eliott’s voice cuts at Lucas. He’s weak, he’s feeling sorry for himself, and he wants to feel loved, so he complies. He remains huddled up in his duvet-made cave and is thankful he didn’t lock the door when he came in because he doesn’t think he has the energy to move an inch.

That’s how Eliott finds him thirty minutes later, and only the sound of his door creaking open alerts Lucas to his presence. Only now is he fully regretting calling Eliott, he clenches his fists in anger, and squeezes his eyes tight shut. All noise is muted to Lucas under his duvet but he recognises the tell-tell noise of a zip and feels when Eliott sinks onto the bed next to him. At first he just lies there next to Lucas as if unsure of what to do exactly, if he should be giving Lucas space, if that’s enough to comfort him. Five minutes later he draws back the duvet just until Lucas’ head emerges and moves so it is tucked under his own chin, one arm under his own head and the other wrapped around Lucas.

The silence begins to grate at Lucas, he can feel himself becoming irritated so he asks in his raw voice, “Music?”

A lift of an arm, a shuffle and then a faint piano melody fills the room. Lucas wants to leave forward and rest his head on Eliott’s chest, but he’s not in an affectionate-giving mood so he lets Eliott fill that role. Allows him to be cradled in his duvet burrito like a child. Allows Eliott to play with his hair and to pick the music when the song ends. Eliott doesn’t ask about the red marks on Lucas’ face, he doesn’t ask why Lucas was in bed at five p.m. He doesn’t ask.

After an hour of this Lucas speaks once more, voice less hoarse, annoyed with himself because when did he ever stop feeling sorry for himself. “You don’t have to be here. I’m seriously fine, I’m just tired and I overreacted.”

They are facing each other at eye level, not touching. Eliott looks unconvinced, a frown pulling his mouth into a downward tilt, lines appearing across his forehead. “I want to be here.”

“I mean it. I am okay.”

Ignoring this, Eliott asks. “What happened?”

_Am I seriously going to cry again? I’m a fucking basket-case._

“You can talk to me. No judgement, I mean it. If you just want me to listen and not say anything I can do that too. You don’t need to carry whatever it is alone. No matter what it is.” He’s staring into Lucas’ eyes the entire time. There’s no trace of a smile, no trace of the Eliott he has come to know. This boy is new and serious.

“I know we’ve only been together for a short period of time; I know everything feels like it’s going fast, but it also feels just…right? It feels like, and this is going to sound cheesy,” his voice is anything but cheesy, it has retained its serious tone, but it’s calm. “The atoms that make up our bodies were born from the same star. I’m not going anywhere, unless you want me to leave, I will stay here with you. I promise.”

It takes him seconds or minutes or hours to speak and it’s like he’s vomiting these words out because he can’t stop once he’s started. He feels the pure rage in his voice, the pain and the shame, and Eliott is there through it all,.Lucas can’t really look him in the eye so he can’t tell how he’s taking it, except for when Lucas is describing the particularly gruelling times he met his father’s belt or the corner of a dresser and he feels Eliott’s hands flex. He isn’t quite sure why he has been able to express this to Eliott who he’s known for less than month and not his best friend of ten years, it feels almost wrong, his loyalty to Yann yanking at him, but that’s ridiculous. He knows it is ridiculous. Who knows why he was able to confess, because that’s how it feels, to Eliott, like a confession. There is a lightness that comes with unveiling well-kept secrets. Though, it is a double-edged sword because he has given Eliott numerous reasons to bolt, and he hasn’t even told him about his anxiety yet, but he’s on a roll now and the need to tell outweighs any fear in this moment.

“It’s hard to explain, especially for people who don’t have the disorder, because, yes, everyone gets anxious at times, it’s normal, but not everyone has anxiety. And it’s different for everyone who has it. I’ve had it be dismissed and seen as insignificant by so many people. I’ve been to _stop worrying_ and to _relax_ as if I enjoy making up stupid fucking scenarios in my head, like I enjoy thought spirals that always end up in me being financially unstable and homeless by the time I’m thirty. Or _people have it worse than you_, because I know. I know my life is bliss compared to others but I don’t decide to be like this. And being told to be rational is the most frustrating thing because it’s not rational and I know that…_I fucking know that_.”

It is not until he has finished speaking that he feels the sting in his palms, his fingers having dug into his palms as he spoke. As he brings them up to cover his face, Eliott intercedes, drawing them to his own mouth and kissing the back of Lucas’ hands then he turns them over and presses quick kisses to each palm — communicating through touch instead of words: _I see you, I hear you_.

Lucas sighs, tucking his head into his chin. Eliott moves, as if pulled by cosmic forces, as if the atoms of his body are really connected to the atoms of Lucas’, he tucks his own chin around Lucas’ head and they lie there, still, but breathing, but alive with soft brass instrumental music playing in the background. A tune dedicated to this moment of revelations and secrets and revelations.

What no one tells you, and what Lucas has learned, is that as you grow older the pain stays with you, it may not be there every day but that is because you learn how to manage it, you learn to suffer in a graceful manner constantly moving, never stopping to indulge it, because coming face to face with it would mean letting it tear you apart, piece by piece. That is what Lucas has learned, and he doesn’t know it yet but one day he will start to wonder if he got it all wrong, if there is another way. He will wonder how he always saw the abuse of others as the fault of the abuser not the abused and why he never applied that same philosophy to himself, that he didn’t let it all happen to him. He will learn that he isn’t to blame.

“You’re not alone.” Eliott whispers.


	4. part four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this was weird to write so i'm sorry if it feels a bit disjointed...idk what it is but i found it tricky to write and be satisfied with. hope u enough tho 😊

_“When you look at him you see dark night  
opening, giving way to dawn.”_ — Ibn Said al-Maghribi

“Talk to me.”

“You shouldn’t have to reassure me all the fucking time! I’m so sick of my brain and how messed up I am!”

“You’re not messed up, Lucas.”

Lucas is perched on the arm of Eliott’s sofa, head bowed and arms shielding his body. Eliott sits on the edge of the sofa at its other end, the exasperated expression on his face mirroring Lucas’ voice. The distance between them, a sofa separating them, feels like miles upon miles, an impossible space to close. Lucas understands his frustration, he even feels sorry for him, sorry that he has to deal with Lucas when he gets like this: frustrated and insecure, when Eliott hasn’t done anything to incite these feelings, when he has been nothing but understanding, nothing but absolutely caring, nothing but a flame in the dark on the days when Lucas’ anxiety has been particularly debilitating.

He knew this was going to happen, that he would mess it up, he just didn’t know he would only have a month of being with Eliott before it all blew up in his face. Abruptly, the frustration drains from him and he is tired. He moves towards the door, stuffing his feet in his trainers and pulling on his jacket. Eliott gets to his feet, following Lucas to the door, asking in a beseeching voice, “You can’t just leave, we need to talk.”

Lucas doesn’t turn around to address him, simply opens the front door and lets out a quiet: “Let me go” before shutting the door behind him and trudging down the stairs into a chilly late summer day. His shoulders instantly hunch up and he’s blowing hot air into his hands for warmth, not sure where he’s going exactly. Going, he scoffs to himself, more like running, like the coward you are. But the knowledge of his cowardice is not enough to make him go back to Eliott and explain.

Lucas recalls a conversation they had a few days after he told Eliott about his father. When Eliott asked Lucas about his anxiety and how it affected him. He didn’t push Lucas to speak about it or set up some kind of intervention. They had been watching reruns of shitty TV at Eliott’s, as usual, eating popcorn and drinking some kind of nasty-ass beer Lucas has brought over when Eliott had asked him:

_“I- Can I ask you questions about your anxiety? I’ve been reading up on it and I know I’ll need to do more, but would you…would you mind that? Because I know it is different for everyone.” His voice was tentative, his hands clenched around his beer bottle as if he was scared he had crossed an unspoken line, entering into unknown territory._

_It was completely out of the blue. Lucas wondered if this had been on Eliott’s mind the entire evening, he, himself, felt slightly uncomfortable and nervous, because talking about it never ended well, it only ever crushed his mood, his soul, leaving him disappointed. However, he knew, in his heart, that if this thing between them had any chance of survival Eliott had the prerogative to know, to decide for himself if Lucas was worth all the work, and to make this decision he needed all the facts._

_Turning down the volume on the TV, Lucas had shifted to face Eliott, because he could be strong. Hadn’t all his years of quiet survival proven that? He could look Eliott in the eye when he inevitably concluded that it was all too much. That Lucas was not worth it._

_“You need to understand that you can’t fix me, okay? I’m always going to be dealing with this and I want you to know that I won’t blame you or hate you if you decide to leave, okay? It is a lot. I know,” Pausing for breath, Lucas had taken a swig of his drink before continuing. “Sometimes I’ll get irritable for no reason, at myself and at you. I’ll be snippy. I won’t want to talk to you. When we’ve planned to go to a party or out for dinner, when the day comes round the thought of going may make me feel physically sick and I won’t want to go because I’m terrified of meeting new people or being left alone at a party with nothing to do or no one to talk to. Sometimes I’ll put off doing things and stay home for days because the idea is a lot more peaceful, comfortable and safe than going out._

_“And you have to know, it won’t be your fault. I just need space sometimes. There’s something else, too. It’s hard to explain why…there are times when I think it’s because of my father, but I can be touch averse too, casual touches will annoy me and turn my mood sour. I used to be this really affectionate kid, and I still crave touch, but I also hate it at times.”_

Eliott nodded thoughtfully along as Lucas spoke; being given the opportunity to explain how he feels and be heard was everything. Everything and more. More than he ever imagined he would be lucky enough to experience.

He doesn’t even know how this afternoon’s argument got heated so quickly, but when he reaches that level of frustration he can’t be talked down, no placating words can calm him, and Eliott contradicting him, telling him he wasn’t messed up made him more angry, and Lucas also knew that while his head was telling him to yell and slam the door and tell Eliott that he will never understand, that he doesn’t get it, that this will never work between them, his heart was whispering for him to get out of there, to cool off, before he said something he would regret.

He knew why Eliott was frustrated, Lucas had been closed off for the past week, refusing to confide in Eliott who had asked him several times what was going on. He was clueless, unsure if he was the problem. Lucas could have easily reassured him that it wasn’t him, but he was feeling mean and bitter. Communication. The age-old issue that tore couples apart on the daily. He knew Eliott would be struggling to understand if the issue was anxiety-related or if Lucas was just being an asshole, which he was want to be every now and then, but that only made Lucas more irate.

Walking along the Seine, Lucas kicks out at a rock and then another, physically exercising his annoyance. The thing was, deep down is wasn’t just anger he felt, it was fear and shock and insurmountable shame, and even the thought of explaining this to Eliott- it is enough to make him sink down on a bench in fatigue, because hasn’t he told enough secrets for once? Hasn’t even opened himself up to pain over and over again these last few weeks? So, seeing what Lucas saw in conjunction with someone else being worried about you and constantly asking if you are okay when you most definitely are not is too much. To be worrying about someone else’s feelings when you are consumed by your own mounting despair is enough emotional grievance to knock you out for a lifetime.

_Today at 13:15_

**Le gang**

**yann** my dudes who’s up for a night of gaming at mine?  
**bazzz** HELL YES I’M IN  
**arthur** idk i’ve got this huge essay to get done by tomorrow  
**arthur** and i haven’t started yet  
**bazzz** yikes  
**arthur** lucas!!!!!! have u done it yet??  
**bazzz** come on we haven’t hung out in ages  
**bazzz** are you’ll really choosing work over spending time with ME?!  
**yann** i have bEER  
**arthur** bold of you to assume i’d bunk of uni work for beer  
**bazzz** we’ve got arthur!  
**yann** lulu! where u at?  
**arthur** lulu!  
**bazzz** lulu!

Lucas clicks off the chat, puts it on silent and pulls up Manon’s.

_Today at 13:27_

**Manon**

hey u around? 

Hey!!

Yeah, I am. What are you thinking?

ummm, wanna go on a walk? 

I would love to.

After deciding where to meet, Lucas begins to stroll across one of the many bridges that cross the river. In an attempt to clear his mind of Eliott and their argument, he marvels at the beauty of his city, at all the history that these old and ornate buildings must contain; the grey water washing by them, dividing banks and creating islands. He walks by children already wrapped up in coats and hats but licking away at vanilla ice-creams. There are two men in suits locked in a heated exchange, jaws tight and eyes narrowed. A couple up ahead leans against the side of the bridge, entangled in each other’s arms, blonde hair whipping against their faces: Lucas looks away quickly at the surge in his chest. And just beyond them, he spots a red pea-coat: Manon. Dressed in woolly tights, her brown hair tied in a loose braid, she clutches a paperback book in one hand, her elbows rest on the off-white arm of the bridge, discoloured by the grim of urban life.

When they meet, Lucas falls into her outstretched arms as though this place, here, is a refuge amidst a storming sea. He doesn’t cry, but he remains there for a while. If Lucas had to describe Manon he would wax poetic about her. She’s closer to a sister to him than a friend, but then who ever said a person couldn’t be both to you?

Drawing away from each other, they smile and return to look over the bridge where Manon rests her book. Lucas observes the cover and the authors name as recognition hits and he’s turning back to Manon, incredulously, as he exclaims, “No way! What the hell? Is that the last book?”

Manon is grinning and holding it up to Lucas’ face. “Yep! Had to pre-order it and everything. Just went to pick it up from the shop, actually.”

“I can’t believe it. We waited, what, five years for it and now it’s actually here? Fuck.”

When they were twelve, there was this fantasy book series everyone was reading about magicians and vampires, empires falling and rising, quests for lost artefacts and stolen celestial swords. Suffice it to say, Lucas and Manon were obsessed; they would queue up outside the bookstore for midnight releases with Manon’s older brother and parents, they would have reading parties together on weekends, but it was also one of those series where the last book kept getting pushed back until it’s release seemed a fallacy, but after seven years, the final book was out.

Lucas grabbed the book proffered to him and scanned the cover and back, flipping the book open like a fan. The smell of newly printed pages ready to be devoured and loved was an inexplicable bliss. He placed it in reach of Manon whose back was against the bridge’s sides and face directed towards Lucas, her blue gaze is searching. He pretends to be interested in the boats disappearing beneath him, but he’s forgotten Manon can out-wait him, she has the patience of a saint. What’s more is she has always thought of Lucas as a younger brother despite their birthdays only between two weeks apart — one week, six days, two hours and 19 minutes exactly if you ask Lucas — making her infinitely more willing to spend minutes, hours in silence until he is ready to open up or can’t stand the silence so he fills it meaningless words which eventually unwinds into the deeper stuff, because Manon makes the time to be there for everyone she holds dear. Lucas is one of those lucky people, he knows that.

In this way, while the wind insists on dispelling summer in favour of autumn, as Manon waits out Lucas and the sky grows grey in alliance with the wind and the Seine leads its placid journey, winding around the city, Lucas voices what has got him all twisted up inside for the past week, the catalyst for this argument with Eliott.

“I think I saw my father last week. At uni.”

This shocks Manon. Although he isn’t directly looking at here, out of the corner of his eye he sees her blanch at his words, she turns around, standing beside him as though in solidarity, as if she would be able to protect him from what has already happened. His heart clenches at this.

“How are you feeling?” She asks.

Bringing his hand up to chew his thumb nail, Lucas shrugs, which is ridiculous because he knows how he feels, he’s been sinking in this tumult of negativity for seven fucking days.

“You know what I wanted to do? I wanted to go up to him. I wanted to look him dead in the eyes and see if he would even recognise me, to ask him how he could do what he did and claim it was love? How you can do that to someone you’re supposed to love unconditionally? What did I do exactly to make him hate me so much? What did I do? I want to know so I never do it again, so I don’t provoke that kind of behaviour-”

“Listen to me, Lucas. No,” Manon is shaking her head and holding Lucas own between her hands so he is forced to look at her while she speaks. “You did not provoke anything, you hear me? I can’t explain to you why he did what he did to you, why he hurt you. But I do know one thing for certain, and I know you’re tired of hearing me say it but I will say it forever if I have to, this is all on him, nothing you did was wrong. It was all him. All him.”

Biting down on his lip, blinks back tears. “I don’t even know why he was there, and I didn’t want it to become this big thing but Eliott caught on to my mood, I mean, how could he not? And I didn’t feel like talking about it, not after telling him about my father, my anxiety. It would’ve just been overboard for him, you know?”

“No, I don’t know. Lucas, he’s there, right? Wanting to be with you. In relationships there are times where you don’t want to say how you feel and you don’t want to express the messy shit, but Lucas, if this is going on for an extended period of time you have got to let him in. It’s unfair otherwise. You’re part of a team now.”

Lucas sighs.

“Unless he’s been an asshole and said something-”

“No! He hasn’t-” 

“-because then I’ll be having words with him.”

That brings a smile to Lucas’ lips. Hearing Manon threaten someone — even thinking it sounds ridiculous in his head — is always a shock because she’s Manon, always flocking to make sure everyone is okay, wearing their coats when it’s cold, ensuring everyone has a ride home after a night out.

“No, he’s great. I’m the asshole, but what’s new, right?”

Throwing an arm around Lucas’ shoulder, easily done because they’re the same height, Manon frowns. “Just talk to him, my love. For him, for your relationship, but, most importantly, for yourself. Now, say this together with me ‘I am not an asshole’.”

Lucas rolls his eyes but Manon is serious. She begins to open her mouth and when Lucas makes no effort to join her she stops and glares, full force, at him until he obliges with another sigh.

“I am not an asshole.”

“And again.”

“I. Am. Not. An. Asshole.”

“Whoop! That is so true, Lucas. You aren’t. Alright, let’s hobble along somewhere, it’s kinda chilly out here. I think my toes are about to stop working.”

“Okay, okay.”

Linking arms, the two friends find a coffee shop to sit at, a feat on days such as this when everyone is seeking the warmth of the inside, clutching warm mugs of hot chocolate between their hands they speak of lighter things, less serious but just as important.

By the time eight o’clock rolls around, Lucas is feeling hopelessly guilty about leaving Eliott’s place that afternoon. Manon’s words play on his mind: _You have got to let him in. It’s unfair otherwise. You’re part of a team now_. But because he’s the king of avoidance, Lucas has agreed to go to Yann’s for a gaming night and he’s rationalised to himself that that is okay, because he hasn’t seen the boys in a while and he misses them and Eliott is probably off hanging out with Idriss and Sofiane, so he’s okay and they can speak tomorrow. It can all be sorted out tomorrow.  
On his way over to Yann’s, he begins typing an apologetic text to Eliott, it screams pathetic and cheap, everything he should say in person. Cursing in frustration, Lucas deletes it all, at least he tries to and he does erase most of it but his thumb slips onto the send button in his frustration.

_Today 20:04_

**eliott**

i'm 

_FUCK_.

He shoves his phone into the front pocket of his grey hoodie, and of course this happened, he really can’t catch a break can he?

He gets no response. Radio silence. Hopefully hanging with le gang will be distraction enough.

For the first hour Lucas is caught up in the fervor of his friends’ excitement about a new season of a TV show about a family gang in Birmingham, England on netflix. They settle on Yann’s sofa, pulling up beanbags and lazy-boys to rest their feet on; despite their apparent enthusiasm they talk through the entirety of the first episode, making poor imitations of the Birmingham accent, Baz laments about how attractive the leading male is and Lucas can’t do anything but agree.

As the night goes by, however, Lucas becomes restless, he plays one game with Yann and then a team game with Arthur and Basile. He drinks flat coca-cola and chooses the music they listen to, but there, in the background of everything is Eliott’s face when Lucas left. When he is choosing the next song to play he thinks back to the many nights when they would talk on the phone before bed and Eliott would play Lucas the piano music he had grown to love, sometimes falling asleep to it, lulled by tender notes and impossibly smooth melodies. He should be there. With Eliott.

So he leaves, apologising profusely, promising to meet them at lunch on Monday, his mouth agreeing to anything while his one-track mind retains its steady focus on one boy. He is running in the dark, the sky jet-black where weeks ago the sunset was only beginning be set. Impossibly, a few stars peak through the light-pollution endemic to most cities and the moon is there, coaxing him on his way, as if to say hurry hurry you’re almost there. Out of breath and surely sweating Lucas does not stop. He doesn’t text Eliott; he will wait outside his place until he comes home, he will wait forever if that is what it takes.

Lucas is anxious now. He presses the buzzer for Eliott’s door, hoping against hope that he will be forgiven for walking out.

“Hello?”

“It’s me. Lucas.”

Silence.

Lucas is there on the steps, panting from his run, his heart galloping in his chest for more than one reason he can count. It feels like an eternity before he hears the tell-tale sound of the front door buzzing and he’s pushing it open, climbing up the stairs to Eliott’s door. It is down the end of the corridor, the last one on his floor, and Eliott is there, in the doorway, watching Lucas as he walks towards him and it is agony: he can feel the guilt’s full force curling in his stomach. Lucas is suddenly self-conscious, he wants the floor to swallow him up. His steps are hesitant. He stops a few feet away from Eliott. Wanting to hug him. 

“Can I come in?” His words are stilted, coated in uncertainty.

“Why are you here?” Eliott looks tired.

“I want to talk.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t budge a single inch.

Looks like Lucas is going to have to do this here. In the hallway. Where any number of people can just walk by. At least Eliott hasn’t shut the door in his face.

“I’m sorry. For shutting you out, refusing to talk to you. For being mean,” At this, Eliott’s composure starts to falter, Lucas understands then that his annoyed posture was all an act, possibly an attempt to guard himself from hurt, and that nicks at his heart a little. “For walking out earlier, I should have stayed. I’m just really sick of feeling vulnerable all the time, I feel like I can’t catch a break and then I take it out on you by being cold.

“I saw my father last week, unintentionally, he was at uni and it’s the first time since he left that I’ve laid eyes on him. It brought back all the shame and humiliation. I wanted to walk up to him, like I’ve imagined doing multiple times over the years and confronting him, but all I could do was run the other way. I hate that this man still has this power over me. Anyway, that’s not the point, the point is that I hurt you-”

Eliott is stepping forward and wrapping his arms around Lucas, pulling him into his apartment and holding him against the door.

“Please don’t be mad.” Lucas’ voice comes out muffled against Eliott’s chest.

“I’m not mad. The truth is I’d rather be annoyed by you than not have you at all. I want to know when you’re in pain and why. And you were, I could see it and it hurt to know you were fighting something on your own. I am so sorry, Lucas.”

“You have nothing to apologise for.”

“Remember what I told you, yeah? You are not alone.”

Lucas’ heart clenches at those words. How does Eliott think of and say things like that, so sincere like it is effortless, like it costs him nothing but the air he breathes to say them.

He pulls back from Eliott, head tilted up against the door. “You need to stop that.”

“Stop what?” Eliott cups Lucas’ face

“Saying those romantic things.”

“And you need to know that you have nothing,” He says fiercely. “To be ashamed about. You are not what happened to you. You are magnificent, and I can’t believe how lucky I am that you choose to be with me.”

“I love you.” The words slip out, Lucas widens his eyes and Eliott is laughing at Lucas’ brazenness. Simultaneously, his eyes shift and brighten, as if Lucas’ confession has changed the very colour of Eliott’s eyes, as if those three words have changed him.

A kiss, soft and tender. ”Not as much as I love you.”

Another kiss just as tender and slow, torturously slow. “Yeah, yeah. Now carry me to your bed, please.”

They stumble there, stripping off their clothes as much as they can while kissing and touching each other. As soon as Lucas hits Eliott’s bed though he is enraptured by the softness of his duvet and pillow and he sighs contentedly.

Eliott looks up from where he was kissing down Lucas’ chest and lets out a disbelievingly laugh when he sees Lucas snuggling into his pillows. He crawls up Lucas’ body until he is caging him in and looking directly down at him. Eliott, straddling Lucas’ hips now, plants a hard, searing kiss on his lips which Lucas is all too happy to reciprocate, clutching Eliott at the hips.

“You are ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously into you.” Lucas winks.

Eliott rolls over, laying his head on Lucas’ chest. “You’re tired.”

“Yeah…Your bed…Morning sex, instead?”

“Sure.”

From his position on Lucas’ chest, Eliott caresses Lucas’ lower stomach, running his fingers lightly over the skin, raising goose bumps in their wake.


	5. part five / fin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so....the final part. thank you so much to everyone who has taken the time to read my short elu story. i really hope you enjoyed it!! 💙

_"It's impossible." said pride._  
_"It's risky." said experience._  
_"It's pointless." said reason._  
_"Give it a try." whispered the heart._

_What am I doing?_

Lucas brushes down the front of his blue long-sleeved shirt with agitated hands. He doesn’t know what to wear, is he overdressed or underdressed? When he asked what he should wear all Eliott said was semi-casual, but Lucas didn’t have a clue what that meant. Could he still wear his trainers and jeans if he wore this shirt? It was ridiculous, really, how worked up he was getting but he doesn't want to embarrass Eliott. He wants to be the perfect supportive boyfriend this evening. Boyfriend. Just that simple word makes the butterflies in his stomach fluctuate.

Smoothing back his hair he wishes he owned gel or something to style it. He checks himself out once more in the mirror: blue shirt with the first two buttons undone — not as daring as Eliott, black slim-fitting jeans and black adidas he’s owned for years, but has become adept at keeping in good condition. _This will have to do_, he thinks. He snaps a photo and sends it to Yann for approval before slipping on his blue bomber, wrapping his scarf around his neck and entering the chilly October evening of Paris.

The lamps are lit, leaves dust the streets in piles of oranges and browns, signs that Autumn is in full bloom. Bicycles zoom past him, adults sit outside cafes, bundled up in thick jumpers and boots, and he’s breathing in that cool air and basking in the dusk of eight p.m. There is something about Autumn that sings of fresh starts, layering up against the brisk wind and bitter air, the tang of hot chocolate and burnt tongues, cold fingers, the excitement of the spooky season, gearing up for pumpkin carving and house parties full of wasted teens.

Burying his hands in his pockets his breaths puff out visibly before him, sinking into the air like steam off a hot drink, and he is thankful that he wore a scarf at least. Thankful that in and amongst his anxiety and paranoia about the evening, he had enough brain cells left to protect himself against the cold. 

_Today at 20:15_

**yann **

hot stuff lulu

Lucas rolls his eyes before pocketing his phone and looking up at the building before him. It’s nothing overtly artistic, it blends in with the shops on either side of it. Weirdly, it reminds Lucas of Grimmauld Place in Harry Potter, throwing him back to times spent at Yann’s watching all seven films straight without breaks. That thought, at least, calms him somewhat. He stands in the shadows not daring to step into the light just yet. He takes several deep breaths in, reassuring himself that he will be fine, he’s here for Eliott and his love for him can eclipse his anxiety for the night. He can do this.

He ponders texting Eliott to tell him he’s arrived but stops because Eliott is probably talking to other people, engaging in conversations with kindred spirits who know art. Lucas doesn’t know shit about art. He can look at a photo, a painting or sculpture and appreciate its beauty or vulgarity and deduce his own interpretations, but that’s it. He decides that he will not speak to anyone about the exhibition because he will undoubtedly make a complete idiot of himself. So when he steps inside from the night into a brightly lit room, the contrast to the night outside dazzling him for a second, he unwraps his scarf and takes his jacket off, moving towards the table of mini bites. Eating he can do, and well, but interacting with people, let alone those from completely different stratospheres, is not his forte. He wishes he had invited Arthur along with him, someone he could be comfortably uncomfortable with until Eliott is less busy.

He accepts an offer of champagne from an inscrutable looking man in all black, tucking his coat and scarf in his elbow. He glances around noticing painted portraits and landscapes set against bleach-white walls, a wall has been erected in the middle of the space, and children race round it, trailing their coats behind them to shrieks of laughter which melt into the background of the music filtering in through small speakers. Lucas doesn’t recognise it, the music that is, but it fits the scene: artists and art and educated people knowing what they’re talking about. He can decipher a light piano melody and the strings of a guitar, it must be something indie he concludes.

Already he feels negative thoughts clouding his mind: _Why are you even here? You don’t know shit. Everyone knows you’re a fraud_. Everyone is looking at you and laughing. Normally these thought spirals last for a while, he will reassure himself, tell himself that he’s being irrational, that no one is looking at him, that they are more interested in the art. He will be fine for five minutes then the thoughts will attack again like a vicious viper, poisoning his thoughts and no antidote is strong enough to stave off the anxiety for long. But, this evening is not about him, and he is really trying to be more positive. He keeps Eliott in his mind and his breathless excitement over the phone when he called to confirm with Lucas, to ensure Lucas would definitely be there. Lucas bottles that voice and plays it on repeat, tucking it against his heart in the little nook Eliott has carved for himself there.

Out of the corner of his eye, Lucas notices someone looking over at him and he debates engaging in inane conversation or turning away and pretending to be interested in the food. He goes with option two, picking up a vegan sausage roll and biting into it, but he’s miscalculated and his glass testers out of his hand and he’s imagining the fantastic shatter and the heads turning and the silence and his stomach is dropping, but the glass never meets the floor.

“Fuck-” 

“Here you go.” 

Lucas looks into deep brown eyes, framed by tortoise-shell glasses and light-brown hair. “Thank you.” 

“I saw you struggling a bit there...you know there’s a cloakroom, right?” 

“Um. Apparently not.” 

Laughter and then, “Follow me. I’ll show you where it is.” 

Lucas puts down his glasses, shoves the rest of the sausage roll and follows the retreating back of the girl who saved his ass tonight.

They end up in a room just off the main one, and Lucas notices it is a lot cooler out here, what is it about museums and no air conditioning? He swears he could sweat a foundation within the hour. The girl gestures to a row of coats and jackets hanging suspended from seemingly nothing until Lucas hangs his own one up with his scarf and feels a metal bar holding them in place. 

“Thanks again. Seriously. Eternally grateful.” 

She’s smiling, the girl, hands clasped behind her back. “So, who are you?” 

Lucas’ eyebrows drawn together in confusion. “Is there some guest list or something because no one was out the front-” 

The girl is laughing now, hair falling forward into her face. “No, I didn’t mean that. Are you a fellow artist or?” 

“Oh,” Lucas feels his cheeks grow warm. “Definitely not. You?” 

“No, just here for the free booze and food, and my sister’s work is being shown so there’s also that.” 

Lucas can’t help but smile. “Yeah, there’s that.” 

“Wanna get some more bubbly?”

He learns her name is Ashley, that she studies at the _École Normale de Musique de Paris_, that she is boisterous and is incredible at impressions. They begin by eating some of the nibbles followed by a glass of cheap bubbly that is decidedly _not_ champagne. They drift around the room, beginning at the far wall on the right observing black-white portraits both painted and photographed; they read the labels affixed to the wall on the right-side of each art piece, noting the artists, the name of the piece and the description of what is being shown. They stand up straight, perfect postures, and move onto the next piece which rings familiar to Lucas, reminding him of impressionist paintings which he quite likes. See, while Lucas is not an expert, he knows Monet, because Manon has a rendition of his water lilies on her bedroom wall — this recognition lifts his confidence a bit. They stop at a sculpture, a body encased in a cage, almost serpent-like, limbs extended and curved in an oval shape — made from clay. Lucas drops his head on Ashley’s shoulder and they stare at this body for a while until she is called away by her sister, they hug and say goodbye. This is where Lucas is when he sees him.

The atmosphere instantly changes for Lucas; he feels less alone, less like an idiot, he feels the room brighten infinitesimally and wonders if that’s some affect of the exhibition, but soon knows, viscerally, that that’s just the affect Eliott has on him. He is a work of art all in himself; Lucas could stare at him all day. 

Eliott is in a green turtle neck and black slacks, rolled and cuffed just above the ankles. Hair artfully messy, un-styled. 

Lucas turns away as if that will stop Eliott from noticing him, as if Eliott wouldn’t recognise him in a crowd of short white boys with long brown hair. 

“Hey!” 

“Hi.” Lucas says shyly. 

In an alternative reality he would run up and jump into Eliott’s arms, squeezing him to his chest, sigh into his warmth and kiss him right on the lips. Alas, this is not another universe, this is theirs all messy and twisted and perverse, but within this volume of space, on this planet being destroyed by human insolence, there is a pocket they have created for themselves, and when Lucas looks back at Eliott, he knows that they are both imagining themselves else where, without public scrutiny. There is also the case of the glass in his hand and, at this moment, Lucas doesn’t trust himself not to drop it.

Eliott meets him halfway and kisses Lucas on the lips, it’s short and sweet and Lucas would die for more, but he’s aware of where they are and isn’t the biggest fan of public displays of affection anyway. Eliott cups Lucas’ face and pulls him forward, encircling him in warmth and a musky scent. Lucas breathes him in before letting go reluctantly. 

“How long have you been here?” 

“Forty minutes or so, I think.” 

Eliott looks at Lucas in disbelief. “You should have come and found me, you goose.” He brushes their noses together. 

_I don’t know anything about art; I don’t know why you would want me here_. But he’s learning that some of his thoughts are ridiculous and it’s just his anxiety screwing him over so he tries to not think of that, and instead, absorb the absolute joy on Eliott’s face instead. He wants you here. 

“You looked busy,” Lucas shrugs. “I didn’t want to interrupt the magic.” 

Eliott is shaking his head, pulling Lucas in for another quick kiss. “You interrupt nothing, my love.” 

Terms of endearment: Lucas has never been the biggest fan of them, finding them cringey but this- _my love_ it awakens his soul, his spirit, it lights the desire in him to boiling point. Eliott in that turtle neck, calling him my love, is not helping Lucas’ need to rip his clothes off. But he holds himself together: cheeks turning rosy and biting his lip as Eliott turns him around and guides him to his own piece, Lucas can feel the nervous energy bouncing off of him.

Lucas is excited, mainly for Eliott, and how much he wants Lucas to see his work after weeks of it being kept secret. He wants to be properly introduced to this other side of Eliott whom he has only seen in brief glimpses of drawings as they materialise on Eliott’s wall or are folded carefully into the pocket of his own jacket. Though they have been dating, officially, for the past month, together for three, he doesn’t know the ambitious side of his boyfriend that well. He could tell you Eliott’s favourite author: Virginia Woolf, his favourite food: bacon and cheese omelette, how he likes his coffee: black, no milk or sugar, and that he is seemingly late to most things except when it comes to their one-on-one time. He could tell you that Eliott prefers paperbacks to hardbacks and folds back the cover whenever he’s reading and that it hurts Lucas’ soul just a bit whenever he sees that. However, Lucas could not tell you, just yet, what Eliott’s passion project has been for the past four months, one month before they met.

Built into one of the many white walls is a screen on which either side are a pair of black headphones. Lucas throws a quick glance at Eliott who is biting his thumb nervously before slipping the headphones on and standing directly in the middle, a few paces back from the screen.

It’s on loop; Lucas sees the credits first before it begins again. A new beginning, a fresh start. It’s a film. Lucas recognises the old railway track that circles the city walls of Paris where they once stood at the time of Napoleon III’s reign. He looks over at Eliott in surprise to see him smiling at Lucas. A few weeks back Eliott talked about going to _La Petite Ceinture_ with Lucas and here it is, right there before him. There is a bridge engulfed in shadows and there is music, relatively loud: a soft beat, violins, maybe? The music is what catches Lucas’ attention the most, he has always had an ear for it, especially the classical, owed to his mother’s appreciation for it, leading to it become the sound Lucas would wake up to every morning before school. The beginnings of a new symphony trickling beneath his door at seven a.m.

If he knows anything about Eliott he can prophesise that there will be something romantic about this film. A shadow materialises from the right shining a torch beneath the bridge which appears at first, impenetrable, however, a shape emerges from the shadows; the dense black around it lightens slightly illuminating the shape into a figure. Lucas’ heart starts picking up its beat, hardly noticeable at all, as a story of fear and courage, of light and dark, is born; he’s sure there is an even deeper meaning there, one he is missing, but as the two characters meet across the bridge of their differences, sharing in their similarities, Lucas can’t help but wonder if the juxtaposition of light and dark reflects the two people who are sharing their darkest fears and greatest dreams with each other, ones they were scared to admit to themselves. The music picks up in a crescendo as their lips touch and they cross the barrier into the other’s world and Lucas’ heart is in his throat at the utter tenderness which is very Eliott. He reaches out his hand behind him and feels long fingers slip into the gaps between his own, he squeezes their hands together and continues staring at the screen while the credits roll, revelling in the experience of this creation he has had the privilege to be privy to.

POLARIS  
_written and directed by eliott demaury_

Letting go of Eliott’s hand while he hangs up his headphones, Lucas is in awe of his boyfriend. Eliott often spoke about the pieces he worked on, but Lucas didn’t know it culminated into this. He turns to face him and is met with a nervous smile. Lucas steps right in front of him, reaches up to cup his face and shakes his head on a laugh.

“Who the hell are you?”

Eliott’s face pinches together and his eyebrows draw down in question.

“Amazing.” Lucas throws his arms around Eliott’s neck and affixes himself to his chest, tucking his head into the space where Eliott’s neck meets his shoulder.

“Did you like it?” Eliott whispers as he circles his arms around Lucas’ waist.

Jerking back, Lucas clutches Eliott’s biceps. “I have no words that would do it justice. How do I have the most beautiful boyfriend in the world?”

Eliott ducks his head in response, shy and self-conscious at Lucas’ praise, he glances at Lucas through his eyelashes and asks, “So, you liked it?”

Kissing his nose, Lucas pecks Eliott on the lips and whispers against them, “My heart is weeping tears. I loved it. Of course, I did.”

The smile he receives is beatific. Only then does he realise the extent of Eliott’s nerves and how Lucas is the one who got him all tied up, he hugs Eliott once more, tightly, in reassurance. “I loved it.”

When they finally part, Eliott checks his phone and asks Lucas, “When are we meeting the guys?”

“Around 9:30, I think. We don’t have to go, though.”

“No, I want to.”

“But what about this?” Lucas gestures to the screen — where Eliott’s film has begun to roll again —and the space around him. “This is your night.”

Eliott shoves his hands into the front pockets of his slacks and shrugs his shoulders. “I’ve been here since seven, it’s too much, even for me — all the attention.”

It is scary how much Lucas gets that, gets Eliott, how he must be drained from speaking to numerous people all evening about his work and theirs. Though, he does look happy, just tired and in need of some down time, which, Lucas thinks, is the exact opposite of the energy his friends exude.

Lucas nods his head, gesturing with his thumb to the cloakroom. “Yeah, we can go. I just need to get my jacket.”

-

“YES!” Yann is raising his controller in the air, grinning with satisfaction.

“Yann! What the fuck, man! Arthur, stop! Lucas, come on, back me here!” Basile is yelling, his eyes fixated on the TV screen, divided in two, his half decorated in big red letters: YOU LOSE.

Lucas is laughing along with Yann, Arthur and Eliott, because it was sabotage but also hilarious. He clutches at his sides as Baz gets increasingly more annoyed. He is criminally competitive, and with Arthur dancing in front of Baz’s side of the screen and messing up his hair in an attempt to distract him and make him lose to Yann, Basile’s temper is rising, his face reddening — a feat they execute every time they play video games.

Arthur is cackling and robbing Baz of his remote.

“You promised you wouldn’t do this again!”

“You gotta stop trusting us, man.” Yann responds, already choosing his team for his next match against Arthur.

Baz sighs and gets up to find another beer.

“I’m assuming you do this every time, huh?” Eliott is biting his lips, trying to keep his laughter in because he feels bad.

The other three all look at each other with shit-eating grins on their faces, but when they turn to meet Eliott’s gaze, their smiles turn sheepish. Then they are back to playing Fifa and British rap music blunts from Yann’s speaker, Arthur raps along to it and when Baz returns, already cooled down — his annoyance forgotten, he joins in and hops down next to Lucas on a beanbag. When Baz passes both Eliott and Lucas a beer each, Lucas rests his head on Baz’s shoulder in apology, looking up at him, and they exchange smiles. He knows they’re okay, that Baz is not mad.

After a few games, Eliott retreats into the kitchen and after fifteen minutes of no return, Lucas trails after, curious.

Lucas peaks into the kitchen then leans against the doorway, observing Eliott cutting a grapefruit into small chunks before dropping them into a jug full of ice. He stands before a window, the street lamps from outside shining through the glass and lightening Eliott’s hair to a golden-brown.

“What are you doing?” 

Eliott looks up briefly and returns to his task of cutting fruit. “Making sangria.” 

“Mmm,” Lucas licks his lips. “Can I help?” 

“Um, yeah. Pour in the wine?” 

“That I can do.” 

Lucas hears rather than sees Eliott saunter in his direction. Placing an elbow on the kitchen counter he leans against it with his body and...proceeds to knock over the open bottle of champagne. It appears to happen in slow motion: Eliott reaching out to steady the bottle, his reflexes failing him, Lucas reaches out at the same time and they both become funnels for the wine as it slips throw their hands and slides down their arms like they’re in a fucking Carrie film, soaking Lucas’ shirt. He gasps at the shock of cold, staring down at his shirt for a second.

When he eventually looks up at Eliott, his back is turned and his shoulders are shaking as he clears up the spillage with a sponge, as much as he, ineffectively, can as it continues to drip on the ground from his own wine-drenched arms.

Lucas throws his head back and groans, causing Eliott to sputter out a laugh which turns into loud gasps of air and occasional breaks of laughter. Lucas looks down at his blue shirt again, which sticks to his chest, and begins laughing too. Shoulders shaking in communion with Eliott’s, he bumps his him against Eliott’s hip, almost slipping in the wine on the floor and is caught by the biceps in a firm grip. Their laughter silenced until they lock eyes and Eliott’s rolled his lips inwards, his eyes entirely unapologetic and mischievous as he slides his hands down Lucas’ sides, joining them at the small of his back, but Lucas is still caught up in the vision of Eliott trying to clean the surface while he was soaked in wine, making his attempts futile, and he knows that look in Eliott’s eyes, that he was about to kiss him, but he can’t help it. Lucas’ head falls forward against Eliott’s chest and his ribs ache as he begins laughing again. Helpless against it.

After a few tries, Lucas manages to gasp out — between laughs — that they need to clean themselves up. He directs Eliott to Yann’s bathroom and washes down his arms for him in what must be freezing cold water because Eliott is yelling in protest while Lucas refuses to adjust the temperature because this is his payback to Eliott for ruining his shirt. He can be petty like it. He’s laughing all the way through it and Eliott’s eyes narrow down at him in suspicion.

Once Eliott is all cleaned up, he returns to try and salvage what’s left of his sangria ingredients, meanwhile, Lucas slips into one of Yann’s t-shirts, bundling his own shirt up into a ball and dumping it by his shoes at the door. When he returns to the scene of the crime, Eliott looks over at him and smirks, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, he gives Lucas a once over.

Of course Lucas knows why he’s getting that look; Yann’s t-shirt reaches to below his bum, but he chooses to ignore Eliott’s look and raises his chin slightly.

“Yes?” He asks, as he reaches for the bottle with the remaining red wine in it and downs the liquid in seconds.

“Nothing.” Eliott responds, but he is inching closer to Lucas, slowly and steadily.

They are both a bit tipsy curtesy of the three beers and then the bottle of cider they shared (disgusting in Lucas’ opinion). At least, Lucas is. He only felt it hit him when he stood in the doorway in Yann’s shirt and Eliott’s gaze fell upon him, slightly teasing and incredibly enticing. He can’t quite look him in the eye, feeling a bit nervous, so he plants his eyes on Eliott’s chest. This does not help remotely because now Lucas’ is thinking about Eliott’s tattoo there and his smooth chest and he is really starting to believe that Eliott is some otherworldly creature who has been sent to Earth to rob Lucas of his sensibilities.

He stands there, and brushes Lucas’ lips slowly with his thumb, saying: “They’re all rosy now.”

Raising his own fingers to his lips, Lucas brushes them too, only to have this hand snatched away by Eliott who brings them to his own lips and kisses each finger individually, like they each deserve his undivided attention.

“You can’t do that here.” Lucas almost gasps out.

“Hm?” Eliott asks, holding Lucas’ hand now, grey-green eyes searching Lucas’, as if Lucas’ voice hadn’t completely given him away.

“I definitely have a semi.”

Eliott bites his lip in amusement, raising Lucas’ fingers to his mouth once more, but Lucas rips his hand out of Eliott’s grasp and takes a couple steps back which Eliott seems thoroughly enthralled by as he counters Lucas’ steps until Lucas is flush against the kitchen counter and Eliott is lifting him onto the marble surface, planting his hands on either side of Lucas as he leans forward and captures his lips in a blazing kiss that defuses any nervousness in Lucas’ brain about his friends walking in, because he really couldn’t give less of a fuck right now.

In between the first kiss and the next, Lucas whispers _fuck_ and before he can emit an embarrassingly loud groan, Eliott is sweeping him into another fiery kiss that lights him up from the inside out, incandescent. Lucas swears that in the vacuum of space there is no star that shines quite like Eliott, that can evoke such happiness or hope in another person.

Lucas is being tugged forward until he is chest to chest to Eliott while his own hands are making a mess of his boyfriend’s hair, and trailing down his neck and cupping his jaw to deepen the kiss.

“Lucas! Lulu!”

“Get your ass in here! It’s time to PLAY!”

“Luuuuuucas!”

“I’m coming to find you!” Baz.

That comment makes them jerk apart. Resting their foreheads on each other’s shoulders, waiting for their breaths to slow down, return to some semblance of normal before they rejoin le gang. God knows Lucas will not hear the end of this but he is flush with desire and with love. Sliding down to the floor, he intertwines his fingers with Eliott’s, resting his head on Eliott’s shoulder for a second before they go back to the living room and have to face the music.

-

He is feeling nervous because this is a big deal but he doesn’t want it to be a big thing; it is a step forward in what he hopes is the right direction. A step forward into trying to take care of himself and being a better person for himself and everyone he loves. He wants to explore the world more, be less afraid of the everyday things that do not warrant his constant fear and anguish, he doesn’t want to be second guessing himself or the kindness people show him. He doesn’t want to be thinking that people are pretending to like him, that pity motives them to hang out with him. He wishes to be free of these burdens, and he knows, he _knows_ that it won’t all be magically fixed with a sprinkle of fairy dust, he knows he has this for life, but when he thinks back on the days where he would cancel plans to stay at home or lie in bed and read comics, the days where he was exhausted beyond comprehension and become lax with personal hygiene, when he thinks back on those dark days, he knows he would do anything to reduce their frequency.

So, when he brings it up to Eliott, he’s trying to be casual about it, just drop it into the conversation like it’s no big deal. He doesn’t look at Eliott, pretends to be scanning for a book Eliott has been begging him to read almost since the time they met to add to the illusion of nonchalance he has going.

“I’m gonna be going to therapy, but since I’m doing it for free, I’m on the waitlist so I probably won’t have my first appointment till the end of March.” Lucas is chill. He is cool. To emphasise this, he flops down on Eliott’s sofa, one of his favourite places — all soft, like a cocoon that molds to his body, familiar with his shape after hours and hours spent lounging in its warmth.

“Lucas?”

Lucas remains where he’s lying down, book held above his head, pretending to read and his arms are already beginning to ache, but he’s going for _casual_ remember.

“Yeah?”

“Lucas.”

The boy in question can’t decipher the tone of his boyfriend’s voice. He can feel the butterflies beginning their familiar swirl deep in his belly, so he thinks of that quote Eliott recently stuck up above his bed: _“I begin to long for some little language such as lovers use, broken words, inarticulate words, like the shuffling of feet on pavement.” _

“Uh huh?”

The book is snatched from his hands, revealing a wide-eyed Eliott. He dumps the book beside Lucas’ head and stares down at him in askance. 

“Therapy? When did this happen?” _Why didn’t you tell me_, is what he doesn’t say. Eliott is in shock, Lucas concludes. Well, maybe not shock but he looks almost disbelieving and confused, maybe, as to why Lucas didn’t tell him his plan. But the thing with Lucas is, he likes to get things done without telling people because he doesn’t want to disappoint them in case he reneges. The look on Eliott’s face tells him it was worth it.

“Yesterday.”

“And you waited until now,” Eliott checks his phone before staring Lucas down once more. “Three in the afternoon to tell me this?” He is smiling, proud. Lucas feels it in his bones.

He is proud of himself too. Eliott’s expression softens, as though he can read Lucas’ mind. He leans down and kisses Lucas’ forehead, then, as though that is not enough contact, not enough to show his pride, he circles himself around Lucas, lying down on his chest, elbow resting on the sofa by Lucas’ head. They are eye to eye now, cerulean eyes meeting misty grey ones: a mosaic of the ocean seas, calm and settled. The weight of Eliott’s body against him as he looks at Lucas with admiration, grounds Lucas in the moment, he feels it like a new beginning, a fresh start: beginning his journey of learning that his feelings and needs are important as much as everyone else’s in the world.

Lucas shrugs in response. “I didn’t want to disappoint you, because if I had told you and I didn’t go through with it I wouldn’t have been able to handle breaking a promise. Especially to you.”

“Lucas-”

“I know you’re going to say that I could never disappoint you, but that’s not true, and I would have been disappointed in myself, and it would’ve all been made even worse, because I’d have your disappointment on top of my own guilt. But I did it, I’ve done it. And…yeah.”

Eliott’s face went through a myriad of emotions while Lucas was walking, but, now, he brushes Lucas hair in tender strokes, kisses his forehead once more, trailing his nose down to Lucas’ and hovering there. On the precipice of something.

“Can I take you there?”

“To therapy?” Lucas inquires.

“Yeah.”

March is four months away. That will be eight months with Eliott. Lucas mulls over his question, even closes his eyes and hums for a second.

“I guess so.” He concedes, lifting his head up a fraction of an inch, just so he can brush his lips against Eliott’s. Their noses slide passed each other, like two puzzle pieces finally fitted together, like when the sun and moon finally cross paths, and the probability of an eclipse increases exponentially, blotting out the star-speckled night and snow-white January mornings, the blazing heat of a summer’s afternoon and the tear-stained watercolour sky of early spring as it creeps towards dusk.

“I don’t remember where but I think I read somewhere that taking things a day at a time can really help, for people like me, who deal with anxious and constant worries about the future; trying to think in the now, focusing on what you have to do on that day and that day only, which isn’t always possible, but it really stuck with me. I’m trying to be more positive, and take things as they come, to stop trying to control everything by taking the day as it is and focusing on it instead of what’s to come later. Like focusing on what I’m doing now, in that hour, you know?”

Eliott nods in understanding, eyes bare on Lucas’, giving him his full undivided attention, wanting him to know that he is listening, that what he is saying is being heard.  


“Taking things minute by minute?”

Lucas nods his head, licking his lips as a small tear slips from his eye. “Exactly.”

“Well that sounds like a plan. Day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, with Lucas Lallemant. Sounds like my kind of thing.”

Eliott’s lips tick up at the side in a small smile as he brushes away Lucas’ tear, kissing the patch of wet skin. He sits up, pulling Lucas up with him, cupping his face as he feels arms circle his own waist. Tight. Eliott’s eyes-crinkle as he rests his forehead against Lucas’ in something akin to prayer.

_Minute by minute._


End file.
